HVP: Highlander vs Predator
by Shok Xone Studios
Summary: An invisible hunter is brutally slaying immortals all over New York City. Meanwhile, Duncan Macleod keeps sensing the presence of an immortal he's never felt before. Is there a connection? And what does Methos know about it?
1. Prologue

hvp-pro.html **HVP: Highlander vs. Predator**   
**Prologue**   


New York City. 

September. 

10:47 P.M. 

The back alley behind a downtown bar. 

Two men entered the scene from either side of the alley, both concealed in shadow. A single street lamp hung high above the alley, the only source of light within fifty feet. The men walked toward one another, and as they came closer, the light illuminated their features. 

One was a tall, dark-skinned man with thick, curly black hair, and a long ponytail coming out the back of his scalp, along with a mustache and beard of the same color and thickness. He wore a black leather jacket that dropped over his hips, a black WWF T-shirt, and baggy blue jeans that almost ate his large brown boots. 

The other was just a little bit shorter. He had no beard, and his strawberry blonde hair was shaved almost down to the skin of his head. He had a slight vertical scar along the left of his highly-defined cheekbones. He wore a long brown trench coat, a dark grey button-down shirt, brown dress pants, and a pair of black Bugle Boy shoes. 

The looks on their faces didn't suggest they were here to exchange pleasantries. Their dark demeanors tore through the air in front of their eyes and almost cut holes in each other's skulls. They continued their casual strides toward the same spot underneath the lamp, until they stood no more than two feet from one another. The shadows made by the overhead light made for a pair of rather frightening visages, faces that gurgled of bold dislike. 

However, it wasn't to last. 

The dark looks suddenly evaporated, immediately replaced by smiles and light-hearted greetings, as they throw their arms open and embraced one another, laughing heartily. 

"McCormick, you insufferable son-of-a-bitch!" cried the dark-skinned one. 

"Where the hell have you been hiding, Gregory!?" laughed McCormick. 

The two friends draped their arms over each other's backs and walked away from the dreary background. 

**** 

The meeting was continued on top of the roof of the bar, complemented with a bottle of whiskey, courtesy of Gregory Johnston's inside pocket. 

Arliss McCormick sat with his legs hanging off the roof, while Johnston paced back and forth with the bottle in hand. They talked for hours on end, exchanging quick swigs of the whiskey. 

"And then there was that time," Johnston said, "back in 1886...You remember, that time you got stone cold drunk and challenged that highwayman to a duel. The man was a crackshot, you couldn't see a inchworm's length past your own nose! You're damn lucky you fell over right as he pulled the trigger, otherwise your little secret might have been uncovered." 

"Oh, please!" McCormick retorted. "You call 1886 'stone cold drunk'? You want drunk, take a look in the mirror you smashed in October 1929, when you found out you had suddenly become stone cold broke!" 

"Don't EVEN go there!" Johnston warned. 

"The maid walked in that hotel room and had a heart attack," McCormick comically recalled. "And then there came the hotel manager..." 

"You can stop right there, Arliss!" 

"I can still hear that squeaky little French voice of his...'Dear god, monsieur, vhat have you done to my hotel room!?' Funny stuff!" 

"All right, all right," Johnston said, "have your laughs, asshole. By all means, ridicule my misfortune! I swear, sometimes, when I'm around you, I feel like cutting my own damn head off." 

Johnston tossed the bottle of whisky at McCormick's back. Arliss shot up his right hand and caught the bottle, opened the cap, and took a drink. 

"Oh, you've been saying that for decades!" 

Johnston reached up and behind his head and grabbed his hand on something cylindrical inside his jacket. He pulled upward and retrieved a long broadsword, and held it before him, looking at his reflection in the blade. He then started practicing with it, displaying an expert style. 

"And don't think I wouldn't do it either!" he said as he practiced. "One of these days, Alice...one of these days!" He powerfully thrust the sword several times. "WHAM! BOOM! You're gonna find my head on the ground." 

McCormick turned and saw Johnston swinging the sword. He raised his hands in front of his face for defense. "Hey, watch it with that thing!" he complained. "You've lost your grip on that sword a few times, and when it goes flying, someone always pay the price!" He rubbed the scar on his left cheek. "And I do speak from experience."   
  
"Bitch, bitch, bitch..." 

"And as for cutting off your own head," McCormick continued, "you might as well forget that. You've got a huge advantage over all other immortals; your head's jammed-packed so hard up your ass, no sword could possibly get to your neck!" 

Johnston stopped practicing, and turned to McCormick, glaring indignantly. McCormick simply swiveled his head and met the stare with a pretentious smile, raising the whiskey bottle in a silent toast. Johnston plunged the tip of the sword into the floor and walked away from it, and sat down next to McCormick, greedily snatching the bottle from his hand. 

"You wanna talk about immortals with an edge?" he asked. "How about good ol' DM?" 

"Oh yeah..." McCormick replied. "The great Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod. Now there's a man unequaled if I ever saw one." 

"Unequaled? You may be a stooge, but you sure know how to understate," Johnston quipped. "The man's a freaking god!" 

"I wouldn't say that to his face if I were you." 

"But it's true, isn't it? Isn't it!" Johnston argued. "Ever since the whole mess with that Jacob Kell cretin, the man can't possible find a decent challenge! You know the story with Kell; in only four hundred years, the man took more than six hundred heads! Count 'em, six hundred! I'm 750, and I haven't even met that many immortals in my life! He was unstoppable, but Macleod beat him! He beat the unstoppable! And now, he IS the unstoppable." 

"He never would have beaten him without Connor Macleod," McCormick said. 

"Yeah, I know," Johnston said, down-hearted. "And a damn shame that was too. Just how bad do things have to get before you have to kill a man that is, for all means and purposes, your brother?" 

"It was for everyone's good," McCormick added. "I knew Connor pretty well before he disappeared for those ten years. He used to love life so much, if only for those two or three people that he even gave a damn about in life. But after those ten years, everything changed for him. All he had in the world was Duncan, and if Kell destroyed him, then Connor might as well have been dead. So there was only one solution, if either of them were serious about destroying Kell." 

"And Duncan was the one," Johnston said. "How bloody noble can you get?" 

"Not much." 

"And that all leads back to my point," Johnston continued. "Duncan beat the one who could be called nothing less than the strongest immortal alive. And now Duncan has that title. At this point, whatever gods made the immortals in the first place, they might as well just hand him the Prize." 

"I guess you're right," McCormick submitted. "I mean, it's not like anybody can stop him now, is it?" 

"Oh, we always knew one of the Macleods would get it," said Johnston. "And now that Connor is gone, all that's left...all that's going to be left...is DM." 

McCormick again snatched the whiskey from Johnston's hand and held it up. "Here's to Duncan Macleod," he toasted. "The meanest son-of-a-bitch walking the planet." 

He took a drink and handed the bottle back to Johnston, who took a drink as well. 

"I'll drink to that," he said. 

Suddenly, the festivities were interrupted as a sudden chill entered the scene; no, it wasn't windy, in fact there was hardly any breeze at all. It also started thundering, but there was no storm, or even any clouds from which a storm could come. But it was able to catch the attentions of both the rooftop immortals, as they perked up their heads and subtly took a look around. The chill and the thunder was not for the mortal world, but for the long-living among them; it was an alarm inside the mind, that unmistakeable sign that another immortal was within striking distance. 

"We've got some company," McCormick dryly commented. 

"Anybody you know?" asked Johnston. "I don't think I've ever felt a presence like that before." 

"I was just about to ask you the same thing." 

They both got up and looked all around the rooftop, down on the street below, and even on other rooftops for any sign of the newcomer they both knew was there. 

"Hello?" Johnston called. "Anybody there?" 

"Whoever you are, we're not looking for any trouble," McCormick furthered. "Just here for a little drink; you are, of course, welcome to join us if you please!" 

Above rooftop, hiding atop a nearby building, was a watcher of the two men. No, not a member of the Watchers, the secret union that documented the lives of the immortals, but rather an outside observer, perhaps a watcher of even Watchers. But this outrider was certainly no commonplace spy; not with the technology he was using, it wasn't. For this scout didn't see the men as men, but instead as two motionary, multi-colored blobs, splattered like paint across a dark blue and black background that just happened to perfectly outline the real surroundings. And it heard not their words as understandable sounds, but instead as massively-warbled jibberish. But even so, it saw and heard everything it needed to. 

It felt the urge to change positions. It didn't resist. 

Down on the roof, McCormick suddenly heard a strange, distant noice; a scraping of some sort, like that of a nail on concrete. He whirled around and looked toward the top of the building next door. What he saw, he honestly couldn't understand, and it left him wide-eyed and open-mouthed. 

All he saw was a shadow, but at the same time, not even a shadow. It was more like...a distortion -- a moving ripple in the scenery that somewhat resembled a human being, but it's stature was unreal, and its movements...inhuman. 

"What's wrong?" asked Johnston. 

"I...I don't know," said McCormick. "I...I could have sworn I saw someone moving, but...all I saw was this...bubble; like something was there, but not!" 

"I have a really bad feeling all of a sudden," Johnston darkly declared, as he removed his sword from the ground and held it in defensive fashion. 

In repsonse, McCormick opened his trench coat, reached inside, and drew a sword of his own, a thin-bladed rapier of sorts, sans the bulky, decorative blade guard that others of its kind display. This one was designed specifically to be concealed. 

"All right, come on out!" Johnston ordered. "Just show yourself now, and no one's getting hurt!" 

His threat fell on deaf ears. 

A mechanical whirring sound shout out from up above, but the echo it created made it almost impossible to pinpoint its source. Then there was another sound; some kind of soft, continuous humming sound, almost inaudible. It slowly increased in volume, while the two immortals, swords drawn, were ready to strike out at the enemy...except they had no idea what it was! 

"What is going on here?" asked McCormick. 

Johnston turned around to look at the surrounding rooftops, when a noise below the building, screeching tires, momentarily distracted him. He shrugged it off, but that's when he noticed something odd on his shirt; three bright red dots, forming a small equilateral triangle on his chest. He rubbed the shirt where the dots appeared, thinking they were stains on the fabric; but when he touched them, his fingers seemed to pass right underneath them. 

Those weren't stains; they were laser lights! Like someone was...targeting him? 

"What the hell...!?" 

His curiosity was sparked far too late. Another sound suddenly made itself known; it sounded like gunfire, but there was no explosion of gunpowder, and it was too loud to simply be a rifle with a silencer. 

He looked up at the rooftop again, just in time to see a bright, flashing light come barreling from above, shoot towards him, and strike him right in the chest! 

Johnston screamed wildly as his entire upper body was ravaged with pain, and a hole was blown completely through his chest! McCormick heard Johnston's wail, and turned to see splashes of blood exploding from the dark-skinned man's chest, as well as white electrical sparks shooting from the freshly made hole in both sides of his torso! 

As Johnston dropped to his knees and the onto his side, McCormick froze. He couldn't put words or explanation to what he just saw. Who was ambushing them? 

He finally freed himself from his frightened, static state, and rushed toward Johnston's bemoaning heap in a vain attempt to aid him. But as he did, he again heard that scraping sound, and suddenly something big and heavy landed on the roof, directly behind McCormick's back! He heard the THUD! on the concrete, as well as the slight shaking caused by the impact. 

McCormick again froze. He knew whatever was responsible was now standing behind him, but from what he saw happen to Johnston, he was deathly afraid to turn and find out what it was. 

Ever so slowly, Arliss managed to shift his position and turn around. As he did, he heard something from the mass behind him; a very odd growl, it was, a gutteral clicking noise that might belong to some exotic insect or small forest-dwelling mammal. When McCormick finally turned the necessary 180 degrees, he could see --and sorely regret -- that it was neither. 

There it was; that same, invisible blob that he saw moving above the rooftops. A hulking, scenery-warping thing that formed a very human-like shape, but with certain features, noticeable even though unseen, that would determine it something else entirely; the claws on the hands and feet, the helmet-like structure over its head, the deadlocks hanging from the top and back of its scalp, and those two mechanical, glowing, pale blue eyes that scratched hollows through McCormick's eyes. 

"Dear God," Arliss said, having nothing else to say. 

The figure raised its right hand, and Arliss, again frozen with fear, watched as out of the distorted space, a twin pair of silver knives' blades came thrusting outward, as if attached to some device on the forearm. Unable to react, McCormick then watched as the blades came at him and stabbed him right in the throat! 

McCormick screamed a gurgled, bloody shriek as the blades went into his flesh, and choked for air as they were retracted. He went stumbling in a circle, clutching his torn neck after having dropped his sword. Johnston finally regained the strength to look up, and he saw both McCormick floundering around, as well as the eight-foot-tall phantom with red blood stains over its right hand. He saw the ghostly assailant then reach behind its back and withdraw a sword, but one unlike any weapon he had ever seen; it was a double-bladed sword, but both blades were jagged and strangely-shaped, and the blade guards above the handle between the blades came in the form of a circular ring of spikes. 

Johnston saw the figure twirl the strange sword around, then begin his approach from behind the ailing McCormick. 

"ARLISS!!" he cried out. 

McCormick turned around and faced the invisible hunter again, and saw the blade of its sword swinging straight at his neck. McCormick dropped his hands to his sides, and he grew limp before the blade even hit him. 

With the wretched sound of metal tearing through flesh and a disgusting splatter of blood, Johnston saw the sword go straight through Arliss McCormick's neck. The head was sent spinning off the shoulders and rolled across the ground, while the body spun around in a full circle before it tilted backward and fell to the floor, very much dead. 

Johnston was rendered dumb by what he just saw. Finally getting back to his his feet, he ignored the pain in his chest, took his sword, and ran straight at the phantom! It was a stupid move on his part, for the figure easily saw him coming, extended his twin arm-blades once again, aimed at Johnston's midsection, caught him in the stomach, lifted upwards, and tossed the attacking Johnston into the air and straight over his head! 

Johnston landed painfully on his back, and simply lay there, unable to move, barely able to even breath. He heard footsteps coming toward him from behind his head, and opened his eyes to see the phantom standing tall over his near-lifeless body. 

Without any hesitation, the figure lifted the sword high into the air, made a downward swing, and, while making a deep cut into the floor beneath him, sliced off Johnston's head like a branch from a tree. It went rolling off to the side, while the body jerked, then rested as a puddle of blood extended from the neck. 

The phantasmic predator looked back and forth and its gory accomplishments, and recalled the conversation the two were having before it commenced the fray. 

"Macleod...Macleod..." a recording played, imitating Johnston's voice. "...Duncan Macleod." 

"...meanest son-of-a-bitch walking the planet..." another recording fiddled, this time recreating McCormick's voice. 

The figure continued to replay the dialogue in it head, even as the sparks of energy flared up from the deceased immortals, and the mighty lightning of the Quickening shot back and forth across the rooftop and from the sky. 


	2. Death Begets Death

hvp-1.html **HVP: Highlander vs. Predator**

**Part 1 - Death Begets Death**   


Several hours later. 

The same rooftop. 

Sgt. Powell wiped the sweat from his brow as the unusual September heat took its sweaty effect on his skin. He turned away as a series of flashes went off before him, then turned back to survey the mess that lay before him. Numerous people, including policemen, coroners, and news photographers, walked in and out of the scene, taking pictures of the bodies, getting blood samples, filling out forms, or simply trying not to gag at the gruesome display. 

"We just got back the report from the forensics team," an officer said. 

"What've they got?" asked Powell. 

"It's weird, sir," the officer answered. "He checked the hole in the dark-skinned guy's chest; he didn't find any shrapnel, no powder burns, nothing like any firearm could produce. Whatever it was, it just punched a hole through the poor bastard. Musta hurt like hell." 

"Thanks for the tip," Powell said sarcastically. "What about the other guy?" 

"Looks like he took some kind of stab wound to the throat before his head got cut off," the officer continued. "Two stabs, about two inches apart. It'd be impossible to tell if he died of the decap, or those two cuts. Either way, whatever made them was razor-sharp." 

"What about metal fragments?" 

"Almost none," the officer said. "But they did manage to find a few really small, and I mean microscopic shards of what they're only guessing was the murder weapon; they're being sent back to the lab right now." 

Powell held his breath as he pushed past the mob and took another good look at the corpses. He almost threw up, then decided to back away. He quickly stepped about fifteen feet away, breathing heavily. 

"What else happened here last night?" he asked. "I mean, what's with all these burn marks and holes? It looks like somebody set off a barrel of firecrackers or something." 

The officer took a look around the roof and saw what Sgt. Powell meant. All around, there were multiple cracks, holes, and burns on the concrete, like some strange, explosive occurance had taken place here. 

"I got nothin' there," the officer said with a shrug. "Maybe there was a lightning storm." 

"Huh! Yeah right," Powell blurted. "Do me a favor, pull your brain out your ass and let me know when you've got some intelligent answers. I'm gonna get some coffee." 

Powell walked off and exited through the door to the stairs. The officer ignored the seargent's rude comments and left right after him. Once he was on the street, he walked until he found a remote corner of the street. He reached into his uniform and pulled out a cellular phone. He pressed an auto-dial button and held the phone to his ear. As he did, his sleeve slid up his arm about an inch, and an curious mark was partially explosed. It was a circular tattoo, a greenish ring with an M-like shape encased within. 

The officer heard the ringing tone sound several times, until he finally heard someone pick up. 

"Hello, Joe?..." he said. "...Yeah, it's Arnold. I got news. Gregory Johnston and Arliss McCormick are both dead. Their bodies were found about twenty minutes ago...Man, you're not believe this for a second..." 

**** 

"And I still think you're wrong!" 

"And I still don't care!" 

The argument had transpired for several blocks, and the two feuding immortals headed for the entrance to their favorite bar. 

"Mac, you're the most hard-headed person I've ever met!" Methos said. "You can never admit to me when you're wrong, can you?" 

"And I don't have to, because I'm right!" Duncan Macleod replied. 

"I've said it once, I will say it again," the 5,000-year-old man argued. "The greatest western ever made was 'The Quick and the Dead'! Sam Raimi directed the damn thing! How could it be anything less than the greatest!?" 

"I have all the respect in the world for Sam Raimi," said Macleod. "He has some very creative visual styles, I'll admit, and I saw all the Evil Dead films multiple times, and I very much look forward to seeing what he does with Spider-Man next year. But the man's talent with westerns is what I call less then spectacular. I will argue to my last day on earth, Methos, the greatest western ever was 'The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly'! Case closed!" 

"Well, it's at least obvious that in terms of taste in films, I'm the Good, and you're just the Bad and the Ugly." 

Macleod stopped before the door to the bar and glared at Methos. He then opened the door and motioned inside. 

"Just get in the damn bar," he said. 

Inside there was a good scattering of people, some sitting at the tables and at the counter of the bar, others were gathered around the pool table and the two arcade machines. Meanwhile, there were several spectators sitting in front of a performance stage, listening to a young black man play a soulful rhythm on an electric guitar. Macleod and Methos paid no attention to any of them, and headed straight for the end of the bar, where an elderly man stood almost yelling into a cellular phone; he was a medium-sized individual with short gray hair that was slicked back over his square head, a white mustache and beard, and he wore a black dress shirt and pants, and carried with him a walking cane. He hobbled back and forth behind the bar, while he conversed with the person on the other end of the line. 

"Say that again?" Joe Dawson demanded. "...But that can't be possible!...Yeah, Arnold, I know you saw it, I'm not denying that! Look, never mind; who did it?...What do you mean you don't know!? You're supposed to know these things, dammit! You were assigned to Johnston; where were you when this went down?...Oh, asleep, huh? Yeah, that's gonna look REEEEAL good on your report!...Yeah, you heard me right!" 

"Wonder what's eating him?" asked Methos. 

"Sounds like workplace trouble," Macleod surmised. 

"I feel like something different today," Methos mused, looking over the selection of liquor displayed on the back wall. "What do you think I should have?" 

"It doesn't matter to me," Macleod said. "You're buying." 

"What the hell do you mean, I'M buying?" 

"It's your turn to pay this time." 

"No it's not!" Methos haggled. "It was my turn to pay last time!" 

"I seem to remember the words 'Sorry, Mac, I'm a little low on cash this week. Think you can cover me this one time?'" Macleod recollected. "And I paid the time before that too, meaning you owe me for two." 

"So you've been paying a little more," Methos said. "Why ruin a good thing?" 

"GUYS!" Dawson snapped, instantly grapping their attention. "I've got two bum legs, and I will kick BOTH your asses with them if you don't pipe down!" He turned back to the phone and continued, "Look, this isn't that big a problem. Call Jack and tell him everything you just told me...No, don't tell him you were asleep, you fool!...Just keep looking into this the best you can, and fill me in on anything else you find...Trust me, we'll find something. There's no immortal we haven't been able to identify yet!" 

He switched off the phone and turned to the two stunned immortals. 

"Sorry about that," he said. "It's been rough morning." 

"Hard times in Watcher territory?" asked Macleod. 

"Like there's no tomorrow," Dawson replied. "I just got a call from one of our guys downtown. Two dead immortals were found on a rooftop an hour ago." 

"That doesn't sound so odd," Methos said. 

"It didn't to me either at first," Dawson said. "But they were found together. Head and hands cut clean off. The only way to know who they were was by their wallets; and a double Quickening had taken place there too, so there was our other ID. The coroner's report said they bought it within minutes of each other! How's that for tough times, huh, Macleod?" 

"Wait a minute," Macleod said, trying to understand the issue. "They were both killed at practically the same time?" 

"And a double Quickening came of it," Methos added. "Sounds to me like a third contender had a hand in this." 

"And that's exactly what would go down in our files if we knew for sure that's what happened," Dawson stated. "This same Watcher had been tailing these two all night. He fell asleep for five god damn minutes, and when he woke up, he saw the last few bolts of lightning, then nothing. Just the bodies. The heads and hands were gone, and so was whoever took them." 

"Both the head and hands..." Macleod repeated. 

"That ain't even the weirdest part," Dawson said. "One of them, Greg Jonhston...he had a hole blown through his chest before the head came off. No shrapnel or burns. It's like somebody shot a torpedo through him without even using any gunpowder, or even a torpedo! He might as well have just punched through his rib cage with his bare hand!" 

"That certainly would make for a strange case," said Methos. "And this Watcher, this Arnold...he didn't see anybody leaving the scene? The Quickening had obviously just ended, whoever absorbed that power had to have still been there. He saw no one?" 

"No one," Dawson quoted. "I swear, the entrance exam to the Watchers must be getting easier and easier...Well, what the hell am I doing boring you guys with my dull life? What can I get ya today?" 

A sudden repetitive beep interrupted things, a sound that came from Methos's left pocket. He reached inside and took out his pager, looking at the number displayed in the digital screen. 

"You got a reprieve today, Mac," he said. "I'm afraid the immortal Methos must depart, for the Watcher Adam Pierson is needed at Research Headquarters. God, I love writing my own life." 

The oldest living immortal than rose from his seat and exited out the front door. Macleod thought over the scene that Dawson had described, while the Watcher had his back turned as he arranged some licquor bottles on the wall. In his mind, Macleod envisioned the headless and handless bodies, and simply wondered...It was no surprise that the heads were gone, had they been taken by another immortal, but how did that explain the hands? 

"One of them was Gregory Johnston," Macleod remembered. "Who was the other one?" 

"Arliss McCormick," Dawson answered. "He was an old friend of Connor's." 

"Yeah, I know; he and Johnston were pretty good friends too," Macleod noted. "Did they have any of the same enemies? Anyone who'd try and kill them both at the same time?" 

"Not off the top of my head," said Dawson. "I mean, I knew a few people who'd hold a grudge against them, but I don't remember them ever fighting the same people over extended periods of time. And besides, no immortal could challenge them to a fight at the same time; it's against the rules." 

"I don't remember any rules stopping Jacob Kell." 

"Yeah, but Kell is dead," Dawson replied, "and so is everyone who served him...well, except for Kate, of course." 

"What about the Horton faction?" 

"You mean my brother-in-law James's old crew?" the old man questioned. "You can forget that. The Watchers saw to it years ago that anyone still following Jim Horton's illustrious ways was permanently removed from the picture. Furthermore, had a mortal killed those two guys, there would have been no Quickening; no one to recieve the power means it doesn't go anywhere. And it cleary DID go somewhere! The question is, where?" 

"And then there's that bullet wound they found on Johnston," said Macleod. 

"That's at least the best name we have for it at this point," said Dawson. "Look, can get off it for now? All this shit is giving me a headache. Can I get you anything or not?" 

"Just a Glenmoraigne," the Highlander replied. 

Dawson turned his back while he prepared Macleod's requested refreshment. As Macleod waited, he suddenly perked up his head as he felt that familiar tingle in his brain; the windless chill, the stormless thunder. There was an immortal nearby. 

But...something was off. Macleod didn't recognize this energy he felt. His eyes squinted and his mouth remained partially open, like he was ready to utter the words, "What the hell?" He looked left and right, expecting someone to either push in through the crowd of people, or to suddenly burst in the door. Neither happened. And usually when he felt this kind of presence, its owner had usualy shown him or herself by now. But this new feeling...not only was there something very different about it, but the generator of it was still a mystery. 

Suddenly, his entire head went numb with pain as Macleod fell victim to a splitting headache. He grunted in pain and almost fell off his barstool, clutching his suffering forehead. Dawson heard Macleod's groaning and turned around, looking bewildered. 

"What's wrong?" he asked. 

"I don't know..." Macleod moaned. "I...thought I felt another immortal, but...there's something different...something wrong about it...Now it feels like someone's stabbing a pitchfork in my brain!...Oh, god dammit!" 

"Lemme get you some aspirin or something," Dawson suggested, motioning toward the back room. 

"No...no..." said Macleod. "It's...it's going away now..." 

He let out a great sigh as the pain in his forehead subsided, and the buzz in his brain quickly crackled away. He hunced over and breathed heavily, while Dawson looked on in confusion. 

"Maybe I oughta cancel the booze," he said. "What is goin' on around here these days? First two immortals die under these spooky circumstances, now you're noticing something you can only describe as 'wrong'. Today's just full of surprises, isn't it?" 

"You're right, forget the drink," Macleod said, overpassing Dawson's unappreciated humor. 

**** 

Meanwhile, outside the bar... 

The world's oldest living immortal, also known as Methos, also known as Watcher research specialist Adam Pierson, was half-yelling over a payphone. 

"Look, this had better be good," he said. "You know I don't like being called in on Sundays...Okay...Okay, fine, George...I said FINE, George! Look, what is it? What have you found?...Uh-huh...uh-huh...Really? You tracked it down that far back?...Well, can you give me an exact year when it happened?...1,000 B.C.!? Are you joking me?...Well yes, that's incredible! Methos himself probably doesn't even remember that far back!...Yes, keep looking into this! Write down everything you find, and I'll look into my personal resources and see if any of it is even true...No, of course I trust you; it's just that with a manuscript that old, it may not even by an accurate document...Look, we'll discuss all of this later, all right?...All right, I'll be there tomorrow...I said TOMORROW, George!...No, I will not reconsider, so stop asking...Yes...Yes, I'll be there bright and early, TOMORROW MORNING!...Yes...Good-bye, George...GOOD-BYE, GEORGE!" 

He slammed the phone back onto the hook, hoping "George" would finally get the message. He walked out of the phone booth, and leaned against the window and exhaled deeply. 

"One thousand B.C..." he thought. "Good God, what WAS I doing back then?..." 

He lowered his head and laughed as he fruitlessly attempted to recall where his immortal life had led him back then. Five thousand years is, after all, a long time to forget where you've been. 

His train of thought was abruptly derailed as he felt that same mental buzz that all immortals felt when in proximity of one another. Methos picked up his head and looked around, seeing if maybe Macleod was coming out of the bar. He didn't. He looked left and right for anyone he might know walking down the street. There weren't any. 

Then, he felt something else. Something was very off about this feeling he had. He knew it was the presence of an immortal, but there was something about it that he knew wasn't right...and even more uncanny was... 

"Have I felt this person before?" he thought. 

Overhead the street, a pair of mechanical eyes watched the confused man; a pair of eyes that only saw a brightly-colored moving blob of light, and a blue and black background. 

A strange noise then caught his attention. Some distant racket echoed from above him, somewhere above the rooftop of Joe's bar. Methos looked up at the neon sign above the front entrance. It was where he thought the noise came from, but he couldn't be sure. Then he heard it again; a low-pitched, gutteral clicking sound. 

Methos's eyes grew wide at the sound, and he cautiously stepped forward, looking at the sign. He narrowed his gaze, trying to focus on certain areas, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. 

Until he saw something move. 

Not part of the sign, nor a piece of the building. Methos saw the space itself move. He saw a small portion of the bright red J suddenly ripple, and then more and more of the scenery distort as something rushed away from the sign and off the roof! 

Methos immediately went into action. Running for the fire escape, he rushed up the ladder and bounded onto the roof, scurrying in the same path as the mysterious whitecapping entity. He dashed past the sign and toward the edge of the rooftop, then leapt off it and onto the roof of the building next door, still in pursuit of the ghost, of which he could catch occasional glimpses, as other small pieces of space became disorted as the figure moved. 

When Methos reached the end of the roof, he realized he could go no further; the distance between the rooftop he stood on and the next one was too far a gap to traverse. Yet somehow, the fleeing specter had made the jump, for he saw part of a billboard across the street distort, then all traces of the pursued one dissapeared without a trace, and Methos was left alone to wonder what it was he saw. 

But was he alone? 

That pair of mechanical eyes still watched him from above. It had succesfully eluded the dumbfounded man, and now took pleasure in his confusion. 

In its rainbow vision, a hollow white equilateral triangle appeared before its eyes, one that shrank in size as it zoomed towards the infrared display of Methos's body. Shortly, the view changed to a much closer one that gave a perfect view of the immortal's head and upper body. Several more of the triangles appeared and zoomed in on specific parts of the multi-colored form. A series of strange markings appeared as well, like some form of language. The triangles dissolved, having not found what they were looking for. 

He didn't carry a sword. Too bad. 

Methos searched for ten minutes for any sign of the ghost, but to no avail. And that's what's frightened even more now. 

"Dammit," he cursed. 

Giving up, he headed for the nearest fire escape and climbed down from the rooftop and back onto the street. He hailed a cab and headed towards home, thinking all the way about that mirage on the top of Joe's bar. He hoped it wasn't real. And he hoped that if it was, that it wasn't what he thought it was. And if it was...then he prayed someone could stop it. 

**** 

Midnight. 

South of Houston. 

John Martin was used to hard times. He was born in 1846, in the midst of the struggle for power between the north and south of the United States, the same tension that led to the Civil War. He was born into a slave family, living on a plantation in western Alabama. When the war ended, he was in his late teens, and set off for the North in celebration of his freedom. He spent the next ten years or so wobbling drunk, and that's what got him killed in the first place, when he incidentally mouthed off to a racist man with a knife. He had seen nothing but hard times since them, but overall learned to just roll with the punches and deal with it, and he lived a pretty mannerly life, especially having never again turned to the bottle. 

If he got past THIS, however, he just might be tempted to go back on that promise. 

He ran out into the street, sword in hand, and almost fell several times. His clothes were in ruins; his shirt was shredded, and his pants were stained with his own blood. There were several deep scratches in his torso; two across his back, three more over his chest and stomach. At this point, his arms and face were nothing to admire either. Needless to say, he was hurtin' pretty damn bad. 

He stopped in the middle of the road and looked behind at the entrance to the alley he just ran out of. 

"Jesus Christ..." he moaned. "What the fuck was that?" 

He knelt down and caught his breath, using his sword for support. 

Meanwhile, off to the side of the avenue, a short, red-haired man in a black coat slipped out of the shadows, watching the immortal on the street. He flipped open a cell phone and dialed a number. 

"It's Rick," he said. "I found him again. He's been in a fight, all right...I dunno, I haven't anybody else with him. He's cut up pretty bad, though...Look's like he's been losin' this fight...I told, I don't know...I'm gonna keep watching, I'll get some pictures...I'll tell ya one thing, I've never seen anybody get that beaten up before...Call ya later." 

Martin finally managed to get back up and stood in place, huffing and puffing. He started to walk off, hoping he'd escaped from his enemy. 

Suddenly, he heard something land on the pavement with a loud THUD! He slowly looked behind him and saw two large cracked areas on the ground, with two depressed areas that vaguely resembled feet, and very large ones at that. The Watcher known as Rick watched in confusion. He too heard the thud and saw the cracks in the pavings, but had absolutely no idea what caused either. 

Martin knew, though. 

As Rick watched, he saw dust on the floor get kicked up as something made its way towards Martin, while the injured immortal almost fell over again as he saw the invisible visitor coming closer, and he weakly raised his weapon in vain defense. As the trail of kicked-up dust, the scenery above it began to misshape, and the eight-foot-tall humanoid form took shape. Martin stumbled backwards in fear of the approaching apparition, while Rick tilted his head to the side, idly attempting to assess the situation. Mesmerized, he dim-wittedly dropped his camera. 

"What the--?" he said. 

"Stay back!" Martin warned. "Stay back, god damn you!" 

The ghostly monster reached behind its back with its left arm and pulled forth the double-bladed sword, the same one that slaughtered Johnston and McCormick the previous night. It extended its right hand, and the twin blades outstretched from the forearm. Martin was so scared, he was almost weeping. 

Rick managed to snap out of his trance, and realized he wasn't holding the camera. He saw it next to his foot and snatched it up, then held it before his eyes and took aim, perfectly framing the wounded immortal and the monstrous spirit that confronted him. 

Click! Nothing! 

"Dammit," he said. "I must have broken it!" 

It didn't matter; he was still there to witness the fight. 

Suddenly, the ghost took a swing with the sword. Martin raised his sabre and blocked, but the force of the impact knocked him off his feet. He rolled backwards and got up again just in time to block a series of attacks from the shrouded assailant. Even in his blunted condition, Martin remained able to use his expertise to his advantage and defend himself, but he knew he couldn't do it forever, especially against this opponent. 

Rick observed the melee in complete and total awe. It was unequal to anything he'd seen, and in his seven years as a Watcher, he'd seen quite a bit, but this...was unreal. It was a man with a sword battling a hallucination with the most exotic weaponry in existence. No one would ever believe this! 

Martin was fighting with everything he had on him. The ghost was unrelenting, striking out at every available moment, and even causing more damage to Martin's already incapable body. 

The figure took several massive swings with the sword. Martin ducked the final slash, and the blade narrowly missed his neck! He dodged to the monster's side, and it turned towards him and lashed out with the twin blades. Martin again ducked the attack, rolled underneath the ghost's arm, got up behind him, and thrust out his sword! The apparition dodged before the blade hit its back, but Martin's sword finally made contact, as it made a hard scratch against the creature's left arm! 

A bright flash of light and a shower of sparks erupted from the swipe, knocking Martin onto his back, and forcing Rick to cover his eyes. 

When Martin regained his senses, he watched as the point of impact continued to flare, and the sparks continue to spurt out. At the same time, some sparks were streaming up the ghost's arm, wrapping around his unknown features like hundreds of snakes. The sparks kept worming their way across his body, until... 

...Everything became clear. The thing had been revealed. 

Both Martin and Rick were petrified at what they saw. Rick fiddled around with the camera, hoping to fix whatever was wrong with it. He may be just a sideliner, but he wasn't leaving without a photo of THIS! 

His stopped fiddling, however, when he heard the unmistakable sound of metal tearing through flesh, followed by the splatter on blood on pavement, followed again by the roll of a head and the dropping of a human body. 

Rick froze. He slowly turned his head upwards and looked at the body in the middle of the street, and saw the dismembered head finally roll to a stop about ten feet away. The fresh, headless corpse of the late immortal John Martin, born 1847, died 2001, began to glow with the familiar energy of the Quickening, and bolts of lightning spewed from the bleeding neck and flowed throughout the block of the street. Windows were smashed, bricks from walls were knocked loose, streetlights were brought to the ground! Rick gulped in horror while he saw the shadow of the victorious attacker emblazened on the wall across the street, arms outstretched, head tilted back, while the thunderbolts of energy shot through the sky, destroying anything it touched! 

Rick covered his ears as an inhuman scream was extracted from the assailant's lungs. Just then, a lightning struck a fuse box almost right next to where the Watcher was standing. The box exploded, and Rick was knocked to the ground. he hit his head against a garbage can, temporarily stunning him. 

The bursts of energy began to die down, until they stopped altogether, leaving only the body, the head, the weapons, and the winner of the brawl, the formerly-invisible assassin. 

Rick had just now awakened, and he got up and again the saw the monster, gulping again while he tried not to scream. 

The thing stood over the body of John Martin, holding the head in one hand and the double-bladed sword in the other. It held out the longer blade and pointed it at the wrists of the cadaver. It quickly sliced the blade across, cutting off the hands one at a time. 

Rick lost control, unable to stay silent. "Oh, dear God!" 

Mistake. 

The thing turned its head towards Rick's position, looking right at him. Rick froze again, and his eyelids opened to their maximum when he saw the eyes; those cold, mechanical pale blue eyes. The body then turned with the head, and the legs started forward. Rick was ready to soil himself. 

"Oh, shit!" he cried. 

"...Oh yeah..." the creature said, but it was a recording, a replaying of Arliss McCormick's voice. 

Rick opened his coat and fumbled his hand inside, searching for his revolver. He finally pulled it out and pointed the barrel straight at the thing's head. The creature stopped in its tracks at the sight of the gun, and simply stood there, staring down the poor man. 

"Yeah, that's right," Rick said, gaining a little bravado. "Just stay the hell away from me, you freak, or I'll blow your god damn head off!" 

Three red lights suddenly turned on, all emanating from the thing's left shoulder. Rick felt something warm on his forehead. Three things, actually; three single, small dots of warmth directly below his hairline. Rick knew he had to fire; he had to retaliate before this monstrosity had the chance to attack him. But he didn't. He was afraid, and that fear was holding him hostage. The spots on his forehead became warmer, and the lights on the thing's shoulder became brighter. 

"Oh God..." Rick said under his breath. 

BLAM! 

**** 

The next morning, about 7:30. 

Duncan Macleod was awakened by that sudden feeling in his mind. There was someone else in his apartment. It wasn't the same presence he felt the other day, thank heavens, but feeling one like it inside his own residence was never anything to take lightly. Slipping on a pair of pants and a button-down shirt, Macleod grabbed his katana and warily opened the door to his bedroom and snailed down the hallway. 

The intruder was in the kitchen. Macleod could smell something cooking. 

He leaned up against the door and brought the backside of the sword blade to his nose. He coiled the fingers of his left hand around the door knob and slowly...so slowly...twisted it counter-clockwise. He turned it as far as it would turn, then pulled towards him, incising an entrance. He sloped his head into the crack in the door and peered inside. 

He could see a two frying pans on the stove, both with lit flames underneath. The scent of cooking meat and eggs was even stronger now. While he found it pleasing, Macleod was more concerned with whoever was preparing the food. 

Pulling the door open further, he slipped inside the kitchen and took a look around. The blinds on the window had been opened, allowing sunlight to pour in through the pane; Macleod distinctly remembered closing those blinds the night before. The table was set for two, complete with plates, knives, forks, and, a rather odd thing to find at a breakfast table, a bottle of wine, the label dated 1714. 

Suddenly, Macleod heard footsteps behind him. He whirled around with the sword in hand to face the opponent. Only there was no opponent. 

When Duncan faced the intruder, he relaxed his grip on the sword and stared in surprise. 

It was woman, an eye-numbingly beautiful one. She wore a loose, short blue top that exposed her midriff, and a dress that was held to her waist only by a small knife slipped through the corners. She had short brown hair, the bangs died a slight blonde. Her large puppy-doggish eyes gazed out through the air, absolutely nullifying Macleod's senses. Her full, pouting lips looked instantaneously ready to home in on his own. 

"You don't like ham?" Kate asked. "Gimme a few minutes, I can whip up some waffles." 

"Kate?" Macleod dumbly asked. "What are you doing here?" 

"Thought I'd pay an old friend a visit," she said. "Make you some breakfast. Was it evil of me?" 

Flashing a laughing smile, Macleod dropped the katana and walked towards her. As he approached, Kate grabbed him by the head, and her pouting lips finally did focus on their target. They kissed for several seconds, then their heads pulled away and they stared into each other's eyes. 

"Considering you tried to kill me once," Macleod answered, "I think I can forgive you for this." 

**** 

The breakfast went cold. Duncan and Kate never even touched it, because after their encounter in the kitchen, their next destination was Macleod's bedroom. 

Kate rolled over, pulling the sheet over her nude body. Macleod sat on the edge of the matress while he laced up his boots. After finished, he turned to Kate and caressed her smiling face with his fingers. She grabbed his hand brought it to her lips, while Macleod leaned over and kissed her forehead. 

He rose from the bed and grabbed his shirt from the dresser. Kate sat up with the sheet covering her chest, stretching her right arm around the back of her neck, sighing in satisfaction. 

"I saw that backpack you left in the living room," he said, buttoning up his shirt. "I saw the handle of a sword sticking out. I didn't know you practiced." 

"Until you saved my life, I didn't," Kate replied. "I left New York after Kell died, did a little traveling. I ran into an old friend of yours; we talked about you a little bit, then she offered to show me a few moves, just to get me by for a while." 

Macleod stopped as he finished the top button. "She?" 

"Yeah," she answered. "Said her name was Amanda." 

"Uh-oh." 

"Beautiful girl," she continued, creasing a coy smile, "especially for 1500 years. She had quite a few stories to tell about the two of you. Personally, she sounded to me like nothing but trouble, but appearantly, you seem to be a glutton for it." 

Macleod turned towards her, mouth open as he tried to explain. "Well, uh...you see, she and I...Look, I'll be honest--" 

"Relax, Duncan," Kate said, reaching beside the bed for her dress. "I'm not jealous. I'm much more mature than that. You think I'm going to blame you for getting yourself some action over the 200 years that we never even spoke to one another? God knows I can't scold you for something I did myself. Be a dear and hand me my blouse?" 

"Thanks for your compassion," he jested, tossing her the garment. 

The phone rang in the next room. 

"Excuse me a moment..." said Macleod. 

In the living room, Macleod picked up the cordless reciever sitting on the coffee table. He pushed the "phone" button and put the earpiece to his head. 

"Hello?" 

"Mac, it's me," Joe Dawson's voice answered. "Another immortal was killed last night." 

"It happens," Macleod said. "Who was it?" 

"John Martin." 

"I've heard of him." 

"Well, he's dead now," Dawson explained. "Watchers found his body in SoHo about 2 A.M...Him, along with the dead Watcher that was assigned to watch him." 

"That's too bad," Macleod replied, sounding somewhat uninterested. "Why are you telling me this?" 

"Remember what I said about Johnston and McCormick?" asked Dawson. "Well, these two were found in same bad conditions. Martin had cuts across half his body, with metal fragments of the same kind found in the first two victims, and the head and hands were gone too, just like before. And Rick, the Watcher who was there recording, he was found with that same kind of hole in him that Johnston had. Except Rick -- the poor bastard -- he took it right to the head." 

"Oh..." said Macleod, finally sounding concerned. "Joe, I'm sorry..." 

"Ah, don't worry about it," said Dawson. "I just thought you'd be interested in knowing that our myserious newcomer wasn't finished yet." 

Kate then entered the room and walked up behind Macleod, wrapping her arms around him. "What's going on?" she asked. 

"Three immortals and a Watcher died in the last two nights," Macleod responded. "And not just killed, slaughtered. They found the last two victims about six hours ago...Dawson, you still there?" 

"Yeah, I'm here," Dawson answered. "Listen, Macleod...That funny feeling you had yesterday? If I were you, I'd be pretty cautious the next time I sense it. I've just got this weird feeling that some of this is all linked up." 

The conversation was halted as Duncan suddenly felt another presence, and so did Kate. They both looked around the room, thinking maybe one of their kind had just stepped onto their floor. Kate walked away from Macleod's back and looked out the window. She saw nothing. 

Suddenly, Macleod yelled in pain, as his cranium again fell victim to a massive headache. He hunched over and fell to the floor, writhing in agony. It was even worse than what happened at Joe's the other day. Kate saw Duncan on the ground and rushed over to his side, helping him up. 

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asked. 

"I don't know," he grunted. "Something's here, something bad!" 

"Where? Who?" 

"I don't know..." Macleod huffed, while the pain in his head went away. 

"Mac?" Dawson voice called. "Mac! Are you there!? MAC!!" 

Macleod reached down and grabbed the phone again. "Yeah, Joe, I'm here...I had that feeling again. Now I'm looking over my shoulder, just like you said." 

"Well, good," Dawson said. "Oh, there's one other thing I forgot to tell you...We collected Johnston and McCormick's swords before the cops got on the scene. They were in our lockup until about 10:30 last night, and then they were stolen. I think this new immortal might have snuck in and taken them. If you ever see this guy..." 

The talking was again interrupted by the sudden ear-splitting breaking of glass! Kate screamed as something flew in through the window and almost took her ear off! Macleod saw the object fly across the room and stab itself in the wall! 

When everything had settled down, there on the wall was some sort of short spear. It was metallic in appearance, and the head of it that was buried in the wall was a crescent moon-shaped blade, tipped on the inside with shark-like teeth. It was what was on the spear, however, that caught more attention; the spear had impaled upon it two swords. One was a broadsword with the letters "GJ" engraved in the hilt, and the other was a rapier-style sword, one made without the bulky, decoractive blade guard. 

"Dawson..." said Macleod. "I think he just introduced himself." 

He turned off the phone and approached the spear. He separated the swords from it and had a good look at the writing that was messily scratched in the blades. 

"What is it?" Kate asked nervously. 

Macleod stepped to the side and allowed Kate to see the swords, along with the words scratched in the steel. On one, it read: 

YOU'RE NEXT... 

And on the other: 

...HIGHLANDER 

Macleod dropped the swords onto the floor, then grabbed the spear and ripped it from the wall, examining the moon-shaped blade. He lightly ran his finger along the points of the blades' teeth, then looked at his skin and saw the cut that had been freshly made. The wound quickly healed on its own, but Macleod wasn't concerned with that. 

"A challenge," he finally answered. 


	3. Out of Shadow

hvp-2.html **HVP: Highlander vs. Predator******

**Part 2 - Out of Shadow**   


Joe Dawson didn't know what to make of what Macleod had just stabbed into his counter. It was a foreign weapon of some sort, that much he could figure out, but it was the design of it that rendered Dawson proofless. He had seen weapons of countless different kinds, and could name a majority of them on sight, but this thing, whatever the hell it was, was unlike anything he'd ever before, and could therefore put no name to it. All he could was stare down at it with his patented dumbfounded stare. 

"And just what the hell is this?" he asked. 

"A calling card from our new friend," Macleod replied. "It was launched through my living room window half an hour ago. Smashed right through the glass and buried itself in the wall." 

Dawson grabbed hold of the oddly-shaped spear weapon and forcefully plucked it from the counter. He held it lightly in his hand, and even juggled it a little to get a feel for its mass. 

"The damn thing looks like it weighs a ton," he remarked, "but it feels almost weightless! What's it made of?" 

"I don't know," said Macleod. "But it's sharpened like someone took a diamond cutter to it. Those teeth cut through the wood like it was a hot knife through butter. God only knows what it does to human flesh." 

"You're sure our new killer owns this thing?" asked Dawson. "This could just be some practical joke." 

Macleod reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of swords, both with a large hole stabbed through them; they were the swords of Johnston and McCormick, the same ones stolen from the Watchers' lockup, and the same ones Macleod found impaled upon the spear when it landed in the living room wall. Dawson looked in shock at the two previously missing weapons as he examined the holes in the blades, as well as the words "YOU'RE NEXT HIGHLANDER" scratched into the metal. 

"All right," he said. "So what's my next dumb question gonna be?" 

"Who is this guy, Dawson?" Macleod demanded. 

"I have no idea," the Watcher answered. "I've never seen weaponry like this before, and I've never seen anything that could skewer two swords like these were. I mean, I've heard of guys who came from a little off the beaten path, but holy shit!" 

"And to make things worse, he's targeting people," Macleod added. "He isn't just killing anyone he just happens to find! He's following them, looking for just right time to attack, and he slaughters them! He cuts 'em down like lumber!" 

"Mac, let's not jump to any conclusions here..." Dawson started. 

"Think about it, Joe," the Highlander interrupted. "You heard about how those bodies were found. The hole in Johnston's chest and that dead Watcher's head? How many immortals do you know who kill people with anything but swords? This new guy is hunting people down and breaking the rules to take them out. And these swords right here, Dawson; they're proof that he's choosing his victims. For all I know, he's watching right now." 

"Mac..." 

"Do you still have that scorecard thing?" 

"What?" 

"That program that says how heads immortals have taken," Macleod explained. "Bring it out." 

Hesitantly, Dawson reached behind the counter and brought out a black laptop computer. He opened up the moniter, which automatically turned on and displayed the emblem of the Watchers. A password screen flashed, and Dawson entered his secret code and hit the "ENTER" key, then waited until the words "WELCOME, JOE DAWSON" appeared. 

"Look up the three immortals who died," Macleod demanded. 

Dawson entered all three names. He hit the Enter key again and waited. In about a minute, three separate profiles were displayed on the screen, and a female computer voice quoted the search results: 

JOHNSTON, GREGORY: 213 CONFIRMED IMMORTAL KILLS 

MCCORMICK, ARLISS: 186 CONFIRMED IMMORTAL KILLS 

MARTIN, JOHN: 199 CONFIRMED IMMORTAL KILLS 

"What does this have to do with anything?" asked Dawson. 

"What's the highest number of heads that's been taken by any one immortal?" asked Macleod. "Besides Jacob Kell?" 

Dawson punched in a few more key commands, and the search results read: 

MACLEOD, CONNOR: 260 CONFIRMED IMMORTAL KILLS 

"I still don't see how any of this is connected," Dawson complained. 

"How many people have more decaps than me, minus the ones who've already been killed?" 

"Based on what I've got here," he replied, "off the top of my head...five or six...maybe seven, I dunno. What the hell's your point?" 

"He's going after the best, Dawson!" Macleod snapped. "Don't you get it? With Jacob Kell and Connor Macleod both gone, this new guy has look for anyone with enough heads taken to give him a challenge. And with the stuff he's using to get the job done, finding a decent challenge ain't a walk in the park!" 

"Mac, the whole 'heads taken' thing, that's all mathematics," Dawson said. "If he's looking for the best, then he's looking for the guys who've amassed the most power, and how much power you get depends more on whose Quickening you absorb, rather than how many Quickenings you absorb. You absorbed Jacob Kell, who got 670 guys, most of whom didn't count for crap to the Game. You also got Connor Macleod, who held inside him the power of both the Kurgan and Juan Ramirez, both powerful immortals in their own right. Based on that, Kell and Connor could actually have been equal in strength." 

"But they weren't, were they, Dawson?" asked Macleod. "Yes, I know that it's the power that counts, but..." 

"But," Dawson interjected, "like I said before, if the guy's looking for a challenge, he needs the most power, not the most heads. Calculating heads is the easy part, but power is impossible to even estimate. He's got no clue how powerful the guys he's killing are, so..." 

"He's not thinking about the power, he's thinking about the heads, dammit! He knows he can't estimate the power, so what's next best thing? Go after the guys with the most heads. And if Jacob Kell weren't dead, he'd have been the first victim. This guy has to have figured out by now that I'm the one who took Kell out, so that's why he's after me now." 

Dawson considered Macleod's theories, and finally came up with an argument, "Okay, so far you're makin' sense...but how is he finding out how many heads each victim took? Only the Watchers know that." 

"Appearantly not," Macleod calmly replied. 

"What is makin' you even think of all this, anyway!?" Dawson asked, sounding increasingly frustrated. "Yesterday, you were sayin, 'Eh, it happens all the time!' And now today, you're turning Sherlock Holmes on me!" 

"When I felt that presence in my apartment, I didn't just feel something immortal," Macleod said. "I felt something evil. Something that took pleasure in butchering those people like cattle!" 

"Mac, if this is anywhere near as serious as you're thinkin'..." 

"Then it needs to be stopped as soon as possible," a third voice finished. 

Macleod and Dawson looked to the doorway to see Methos standing there. He walked in with a look that was certainly polar to his usual unclouded disposition. 

"This thing is serious, Dawson," he said. "Macleod is right; the immortals who've already been killed were hunted down like dogs. And there are only more for him to kill, right here in New York. He has to be found." 

"And just how do you suppose we do that?" 

"He's keeping to a certain area of the city," Methos explained. "He doesn't want to show his face, and if he stretches too far from home, he might get noticed, and then turmoil will come of it." 

Macleod shot an inquisitive look. "How do you know all of this?" 

"Think about what he's doing," said Methos. "He's a fan of attacking from behind, and when he comes from the front, he still keeps himself so no one sees him, even from up close. He's not going to go so far into the city where there are more people to see him doing what's he's doing. If you were a hunter like this new immortal, Macleod, wouldn't you be the kind to keep the most watchful eye on both your prey and yourself? You wouldn't want a raptor suddenly jumping out of the bush from beside you, would you?" 

"I...guess not..." Macleod answered. "But..." 

"Two more immortals were found an hour ago," Methos reported. "Richard Benson, born 1439, with 187 confirmed immortal kills, and Wendell Vandinski, born 1675, with 189 confirmed immortal kills. Multiple slash marks on the upper body, holes found punched through the chests..." 

"...And heads and hands missing," Dawson and Macleod said in unison. 

"Dawson, bring up a map and show me where the first three died," Methos ordered. 

Dawson punched in a new series of key commands, and when he finished, a map of New York City was digitized upon the moniter. It zoomed in on one section in particular, a section about five miles in diameter, and three dots appeared; two together, one shown about three miles away. 

"Johnston and McCormick," Methos said, pointing to the couple, "and the third is Martin, right?" 

"Yeah." 

Methos jumped behind the counter and typed in a few commands. Suddenly, a fourth and fifth dot appeared on the lower part of the map, about a mile apart. He punched in another command, and a yellow line connected all five dots, forming an unequal pentagon. The enclosed area then shaded itself a pale blue, indictating the area in which the immortals were killed. 

"Ten to one, our newcomer in somewhere in this area," he said. 

"Come on!" Dawson crabbed. "This is all conjecture! I mean, it's obvious he's moving south with this pattern of kills; why would he just be staying in one place? If he's hunting these guys down like Macleod thinks he is, then your theory that he's keeping himself hidden like this disproves that! That means he's just killing anyone who gets in his yard! Hunting someone means you go out, no matter where they are, and look for 'em. You don't hunt a guy by staying where you are!" 

"This is a very strong presence, Dawson," Macleod replied. "The force of the Gathering draws immortals to one another like a magnet. I think this new guy is just letting immortals come to him because they're being drawn right to him!" 

"He's right, Joe," Methos agreed. 

"I can't believe what I'm hearing..." the Watcher muttered. "Okay, you bring up a few good points...So what do you expect ME to do!?" 

"Nothing," said Macleod. "This guy's proved himself too dangerous for anyone else to fight...so I'm gonna go out and look for him." 

"NO!" cried Methos, stopping Macleod before he could leave. "You're not ready for this yet. If you go up against this immortal now, you'll be killed for certain!" 

"What do you mean I'm not ready?" 

"You may be the most powerful man alive, Macleod, but you are not properly prepared for this newcomer. He is something more than man, more than immortal even. You can't just go rushing head-on into this mess." 

Macleod stared in disbelief. "What do you know, Methos?" 

He was hesitant to answer. 

"You seem to know an awful lot about a guy no one's ever seen," Dawson said. "Just how much do you know?" 

"Answer me, Methos!" Macleod demanded. 

"I'd rather not say yet..." the oldest living immortal replied. "You wouldn't believe me anyway." 

"So what do you suggest we do?" asked Dawson. 

"Send a few Watchers into the area," he said. "Have them scout around for a few hours, and report back with whatever they find." 

"Are you nuts!?" Dawson charged. "We had a Watcher there where John Martin was killed, and that Watcher became just another victim! You cannot expect me to send more of my guys into the middle of this guy's path! They would die, just like the others, and then I would get blamed for it! And I almost lost MY head the last time that happened!" 

"It's not as crude as that, Joe," said Methos. "You can send them out, but make sure they are unarmed. The hunter won't go near them if they don't have weapons!" 

"Excuse me?" 

"The Watcher who was killed last night had a gun on him, right?" Methos illustrated. "The reason he died is because he had that gun and he tried to fight back. The hunter saw the gun and took him out. If he hadn't had any weapons on him, the hunter would just walked right on by without another word." 

"Why?" 

"No weapons, no sport," Methos said. "He's a hunter looking for a good scrap, remember? What challenge is there from prey that can't defend itself?" 

"How do you know all his!?" Macleod again ordered. 

"I told you, I can't say," Methos reiterated. "Have I ever led you down a fraudulent path before, Macleod? And I mean besides that whole Horsemen snag, because you know I had my reasons for that! Answer me honestly now." 

Now it was Macleod who was hesitant to answer, but he still planned to. He recalled the last eight or so years he'd known Methos and couldn't disagree that the man had been for the most part open and honest about himself. 

"No, Methos," he said. "No, you haven't." 

"So can you trust my insight now?" 

"What choice do I have?" 

"You don't," Methos said. "Not against this opponent." 

They then both turned to Dawson and said: 

"Dawson! Call the Watchers!" 

The old man rolled his eyes and picked up the phone. 

"God only knows why I put up with this crap..." he mumbled. 

**** 

7:56 P.M. It had taken a good deal of convincing to get the Watchers out into the field. 

Macleod, Dawson, Methos and Kate all sat in the van, parked about three blocks away from the area spelled out by the positions of the dead immortals when they were found. They impatiently awaited their call back from the Watchers Joe sent into the field. 

"How long has it been?" asked Kate. 

Methos looked at his watch. "About an hour." 

"This is ridiculous!" Dawson protested. "They're not going to find anything out there, because there is nothing out there!" 

"Relax, Dawson," said Macleod. 

"Do we even know what it is they're looking for?" asked Kate. 

"We don't, but Methos appearantly does," said Dawson. "Except the dumb bastard won't tell us! This would be a hell of a lot easier if we at least had some small, even insignificant clue what we're up against here, y'know! Methos, are you even listening to me back there!?" 

"I don't like this," said Kate, sipping her coffee. "There is something very wrong about all of this; I don't know what it is, but I just have this feeling those Watchers shouldn't be out there." 

"Wasting their time!" Dawson added. 

"Oh, stop your bitching," Macleod barked. "We have to know what's out there." 

"I thought Methos knew what it was!" 

"I just thought I knew what it was based on certain things that have happened in recent days," Methos corrected. "This little excursion into the wilderness here is to confirm or, hopefully, disprove my fears." 

"And how are THEY suppose to help do that?" Dawson asked, referring to the Watchers sent into the city. 

"If they see anything, they'll tell you about it, and based on what they see, I'll know if it corroborates what I saw the other day when I left the bar." 

"What did you see?" asked Macleod. 

"All in due time, Highlander..." 

Macleod grunted with disapproval. "I'm getting real sick of this, Methos. Kate's right; those Watcher's should not be out there is what you think is there IS there! If it's the same guy we're dealing with, they're going to end up dead!" His complaints were ignored. "Damn you, Methos, listen to me! No one else has to die because of this guy, and the people out there WILL if we don't end this right now!" He was still ignored. "That's it, I'm going out there!" 

He reached inside his coat for his sword, grabbed the handle of the door and opened it, then began to step outside. Methos suddenly shot out of his back seat and grabbed Macleod by the shoulder. 

"Remember what I said about the weapons?" he asked. "They don't have any firearms, so the hunter will just walk right on by!" 

Macleod handed him an irritated stare, then grudgingly retracted his hands from his sword, sat back in his seat, and pulled the door shut. 

"It's just about 8:00," said Dawson. "I'm calling them." 

**** 

"Hello?" said David. "Oh hey, Joe...No, we haven't seen anything yet; I've been keeping in touch with Joey, Bill, and DeLuca, and they haven't seen much either...So should we keep looking?...Yeah, I understand that, but are you sure this new guy is here?...Yes, that does make sense on some level...All right, I'll tell the others...HEY, JOEY!" 

The short black man named Joey strutted over, followed by two others; Bill, a middle-aged, balding Wisconsinite, and Deluca, a Hispanic-looking gentleman in his early 20s. 

"What's the word?" asked Joey. 

"Dawson's on the line," said David. "He wants us to keep looking for another hour, then report back to him." 

The other three uproared in rejection of the order. 

"For God's sake, is this some late April Fool's joke or something?" asked Bill. "We've been out here a fucking hour, and we've seen NOTHING!" 

"What are we lookin' for anyway?" asked DeLuca. "What's the guy look like?" 

"Dawson doesn't know," David answered. "But he's got reason to believe he's making a hiding place around this area, so we're scouting around, seeing if we can find out who he is." 

"This is bullshit!" Joey complained. 

"Keep your voice down, dammit," David said, turning back to the phone. "Hello, Dawson? I...Oh, you DID hear that...Don't worry about these guys, they're just cranky 'cause they're not gettin' paid to do this...Yeah, we'll keep looking, and I'll call you back abo--" 

"Hey!" DeLuca cried. "Did you hear somethin'?" 

"What?" asked David. 

"I dunno, I just thought I heard something moving," said DeLuca. 

"Yeah, I think I heard it too," said Bill, looking up at the rooftops overhead. "Something...up there." 

All four of them looked upwards at the tops of the buildings hanging high over their heads. A rain gutter dribbled water onto the pavement from fifty feet above, splashing faintly over on the side of the alley. A couple birds flapped over the gap between the buildings, almost landing a dropping on DeLuca's foot. Suddenly, the echo of something up top sounded out through the alley; a strange clicking noise. It was distant, but obviously close enough to be within reasonable span of the four Watchers. 

"Joe, hold on a sec..." said David, dropping the cell phone to his side. 

"What was that?" asked Bill. 

"Sounded like a big bug or something," said Joey. 

"How many big bugs do you see in New York?" David asked with cynicism. 

"We're standing next to one," DeLuca joked. 

David handed DeLuca a dirty look and motioned to punch him out. DeLuca flinched backward and replied with a subtle smirk. 

"Hey wait a minute! I think saw something!" said Joey. "Up on that broken ledge over there!" 

He pointed to the shorter of the buildings they stood between, and indicated a fractured part of a stone ledge outlining the rooftop. Three telephone wires stretched over that particular part of the roof, and because of the piece that had fallen away, part of a television antenna could be seen. 

They finally figured out what to look for when the wires and the antenna suddenly rippled in air, like they were seen from underwater. 

"What the fuck--?" DeLuca said. 

"Dawson, we just saw somethin'," said David, once again picking up the phone. 

"What? What do you see?" Dawson asked on the other end of the line. 

"I dunno, I didn't even see a shadow, all I saw was something moving! Like...like some sort of ghost running across the sky!" 

"Hey, I think I see something else!" cried Bill. "Look, something's hanging off the edge of that other roof..." 

All four of them looked at the other rooftop, and saw a small, cylindrical object peeking out from above the roof; a mechanical-looking thing that definitely was not there before. It wobbled slightly, like someone was moving it. 

All of a sudden, a spark of light shot from the object, and the Watchers jumped back a little. When they saw and heard nothing else, they relaxed. 

"Musta been a downed wire," said Joey. 

"Dawson, we're movin' outta here," David said over the phone. "We'll keep lookin' but..." 

He stopped when something else got his attention. It was faint, but it was clear; something small shooting through the air. David tilted his head back up again to look at the strange object hanging off the roof, then saw something else, something that had to have been shot from it! All he saw was a small black blur, spiraling around after it had been launched from the rooftop. 

Then, the path of the object altered, it spiraled downward, then dove straight at David's head! 

It tore through his forehead and went out the back of his head, then lodged itself in the paving, taking a messy splotch of blood with it! Meanwhile, David yelped pitifully while he stumbled off his feet and fell to the ground, then promptly died of brain damage. 

"Shit!" Bill yapped, staring in horror at the newly deceased. 

**** 

"David!?" Dawson called. "Dawson, what the hell's goin' on!? DAVID!!" 

On the speaker, all that was heard was a lot of shouting. Some of it was in fear and horror, others in pain and suffering. Something sharp could be heard tearing through flesh. Bodies were dropping. Then finally, several loud BANG!s erupted from the phone, before static overtook the line. Dawson fiddled with the radio knobs, but only got more static. The line was head...and from the sound of things, it wasn't the only fatality. 

No one sitting in the van liked this at all. 

"That sounded like gunfire!" said Kate. 

"I'm going out there!" Macleod declared, as he opened the door once again. 

"Not without me, dammit!" said Dawson! 

"Wait for me!" Kate called. 

"ALL of you wait!" cried Methos, following the three of them. "Don't bring your weapons! LEAVE YOUR WEAPONS!" 

**** 

"I see the blood. I see guns. Where are the bodies?" asked Macleod. 

Methos knelt down and found a discarded firearm, picking it up with a surgical glove. He walked over to Joe Dawson and waved the weapon in the old man's face. 

"I told you, Joe...Tell them, 'Don't bring weapons!'" he grumbled. "Didn't I say that!?" 

"I DID tell them!" Dawson replied. "I thought it was preposterous, but I told him, 'Leave your guns!' I swear to God, Methos, that's what I told them! All four of them! Guess it goes to show you what MY advice means to anybody anymore!" 

"I don't get it," said Kate. "Why would they bring the guns in the first place?" 

"It's standard procedure when doing a stakeout," said Dawson. "Whenever we watch a fight, we bring one along just in case we're spotted and we need to make a quick getaway. We almost never use 'em, but hey, rules are rules, right? They musta heard me say 'Don't bring the guns' and thought I was nuts. God damn you, David." 

"Where are the bodies?" Macleod repeated. 

"You're askin' me!?" Dawson answered. 

"Can we please just calm down here?" Kate intervened. "Arguing isn't getting us anywhere here!" 

"All the other bodies were found right where they died," Macleod said, ignoring Kate. "Why would the bodies be gone now!?" 

"I DON'T KNOW!" Dawson yelled. 

Kate tossed her hands and rolled her eyes in frustration, then walked away from the pointless argument. She walked around aimlessly, surveying the mess. Methos was collecting the guns and looking over the spilled blood, as well as examining bullet holes in the walls. Meanwhile, Macleod and Dawson were still thundering at each other in their ill-advised attempts to get answers. 

Just then, Kate walked past just the right position for the sunlight to reflect off of something shiny, instantly catching her eyes. She stopped and moved back so that she could see the glistening relfection sticking out of the ground. She walked towards it, stepping over a splotch of blood, and knelt down to examine it. 

Slipping on a glove, she grabbed the metallic object lodged in the earth and jerked it out. It was shaped similarly to the spear that had been shot through the window that morning, with an almost identical sharp, toothy blade; but this new object was much smaller, enough so, in fact, that it could have been shot out of some sort of gun. It was stained with blood. She turned it around and got a look at the opposite side. There wasn't as much blood on it there, and she could see more of the mysterious markings that were seen on the spear as well. 

Drip... 

A thick red droplet fell from above and hit the ground a foot from where Kate sat. She looked up and saw the fresh stain, then saw another drop hit in the exact same spot. Almost afraid to do so, Kate slowly rose to her feet and looked upward. 

She just barely stopped herself from screaming. 

"DUNCAN!" she blared. 

Macleod turned from Dawson and ran over to Kate. 

"What's wrong?" he asked. 

Kate pointed a trembling finger up at the sky. 

Macleod looked upward, and at the same time, Dawson hobbled over and did the same. What they saw dunned them both speechless. 

"Mother of God..." Dawson uttered. 

Bodies. Four of them, dangling by their feet from tethers tied to one of the overhanging telephone wires. They drooped about thirty feet off the ground, which made the view of them close enough to distinguish the most frightening element of this new discovery. They were all human bodies, and they were all dead, and they were mostly intact, but the terrifying aspect was that their epidermis had been completely flayed away. Or, for the vocabularily-challenged among you -- their skin was stripped right off. 

It was appalling; the faces, frozen in those horrified expressions; the arms, swinging lifelessly in the wind, almost as if they were warning the onlookers to back away; and the bodies themselves, slashed and torn at like with a enormous razor blade. What a vomit-inducing spectacle! 

Kate gasped in horror and dove into Macleod arms, sheilding her eyes with his jacket shoulder. 

"Joe?" Macleod called. "Any ideas?" 

"Sorry, Mac," he calmly replied. "I'm terrfied beyond the realm of rational thought." 

"Methos?" 

All three of them turned toward the oldest living immortal, who stood staring at the hanging bodies with a dark, glacial grimace. 

"We're fucked," he said. 

**** 

"I'm gonna get shot for this!" Dawson reviled, as he opened the door of the van. "When the Watchers find out I sent those four guys out and they got killed an hour into their assignment, they're gonna have my ass served up at Thanksgiving!" 

"No one's going to blame you for this, Joe," said Methos. "I'll tell them you sent those men at my behest. I'll say the person they were looking for could provide information for the Methos Chronicles or something, I don't know, I'll come up with some dumb excuse." 

"One thing we know for sure," Kate added. "He's not keeping his hunt to just immortals anymore. He's hunting anyone who tries to get in his way. Those men died because they had weapons. We went in unarmed and nothing happened to us. I guess that proves Methos's theory." 

"Okay, so shit on me!" replied Dawson. "Fuck this new guy; I'm more concerned with what to tell the Watchers about the four skinned bodies hanging from a phone wire! I'm already on shaky ground because of all the lives that were lost back when our old buddy Kallas was ready to spill the beans on the whole thing, and they are not going to take this lightly at all! What so you suppose they're gonna think of the snafu we saw back there just now, huh? Jesus Christ, Methos, tell me again why I agreed to this!?" 

"Because you thought you could trust my cognition," he answered. "If it makes you feel any better, this time, even I was fooled, all right? I screwed up royal, Joe. Is that what you want to hear?" 

"All this aside," Kate interposed, "at least this time, we have a souvenir." She took the metal object out of her pocket and tossed it to Dawson. "I found it just before I saw those bodies. It looks just like the one that got tossed through Duncan's window. It has the same design, it's obviously made of the same material. Thanks to this little item, now we know for certain that we're dealing with the same killer and this isn't all some idiotic coincidence." 

"In spite of that, it still doesn't get us anywhere," said Dawson. "At least as long as Mr. 'I-Know-What-I'm-Doing' still keeps his mouth shut about this whole damn fix!" 

"I told you once, I'll tell you again," Methos snarled, "I have my reasons for keeping my secrets, and I'll reveal them when I see fit. So with all due respect, Mr. Dawson, would you please cease and desist your incessant bitching! You're giving me a headache!" 

Kate again rolled her eyes. 

"Duncan, I..." she started. 

She turned around as she spoke to face Macleod, who, as far as she knew, was standing right behind her. When she made the 180-degree spiral, however, she saw that this was apparently no longer the case. She turned in all directions hoping to catch some sign of his position, but to no avail. 

"Um...guys?" she called. "Where's Duncan?" 

Dawson and Methos stopped arguing long enough to look around and too notice that Duncan Macleod was not among them. In fact, now that they thought about it, he hadn't even been heard from since Dawson opened the door of the van. 

"Oh, for God's sake..." Methos cursed. 

He dashed next to the van and peeked inside. On the two backseats, there lay Methos and Kate's swords, and on the driver's side seat in the front, there was a handgun hidden underneath the base of the cushion. However, in the passenger side, where Macleod had sat, and where he had placed his katana when he left the van before, there was nothing. 

"Curse you, Macleod!" he vexed. 

He then reached into the back seat and pulled out his own sword, then stuffed it inside his coat. He closed the door and started towards the alley. 

"You two, stay here!" he barked at Kate and Dawson. "And if you see lightning, for the love of God, run the hell away!" 

He disappeared in the entrance to the alley, leaving behind the confused pair. 

"Mom was right," Kate mulled. "I should have stayed a seamstress." 

**** 

Macleod hopped off of the fire escape ladder and stepped onto the rooftop. As he cautiously walked forward, he couldn't help but feel just a little guilty for ditching the others, but this was too dire a situation to simply sit on the sidelines for. So he took just the right opportunity; when Dawson opened the car door, he snatched up his sword and disappeared. He figured someone had to notice he was missing by now, but it was too late. 

He reached inside his jacket and drew forth the dragon's head katana and held it before him in defensive fashion. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he just had this feeling it was on this roof. It was right next to where the skinned bodies had been found, so the killer couldn't gave gotten TOO far away... 

Macleod's defense dropped, however, when the buzz filled his head, as well as the migraine that came with the two previous presences of the mysterious new immortal that was the prime suspect repsonsible for the brutal slayings witnessed in the last few days. But this was all speculative, and Macleod was through playing guessing games. 

This headache was worse than the other two. The hunter was close...VERY close. 

Regaining his strength and senses, Macleod stood up straight, sword in hand, and called out, in the most intimidating voice he could muster: 

"I am Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod!" 

He heard his voice echo in the empty vista. 

"I know you're here!" he said. "I demand you show yourself! Face me now!" 

Still nothing. 

"What's the matter? Feel better about yourself when you're hiding in the bushes? Coward!" 

That must have struck something. Macleod suddenly heard something moving behind him. Nothing much; just a quick rush of air and several faint footsteps. He whirled around to see only a plume of smoke from an air conditioner; the smoke had just been disturbed by someone running past it. He also saw several strange scratch marks on the ground near the chimney, four two-inch-long trenches, side by side. Macleod knew those weren't there a moment ago. 

"Those look like claws..." he thought. 

WHOOSH! Something ran past him on the other side of the roof! Macleod whirled around again, and ran toward where he heard the sound. He jumped up on top of the sheltered doorway that led downstairs, and peered over the other side, ready to whip out the blade of his sword at anything that moved. He saw the remnants of a cloud of dust that had been kicked up by whatever moved past this area. 

If only he had been facing the opposite direction...he might have noticed the three red laser lights focused on his upper body. 

Fortunately, he did hear the shot. 

Without a moment's hesitance, Macleod jumped backwards and twirled off the shelter, just as a white energy bolt zoomed past his body and exploded across the alley! Macleod landed back on the ground and whirled around, pointing the tip of the katana out at the air in front of him. 

At first he didn't see anything, but as he slowly walked forward, he momentarily saw something in the empty space; something resembling human, something masculine, but with monstrous stature and and certain inhuman features that led one to believe it was other than human. Not to mention that all he saw was a scenery-distorting outline of the attacker. 

Macleod smiled. "Peek-a-boo." 

The figure jumped in surprise, and had now fully given himself away. His deadlocked hair swayed wildly, and his body shifted into a lunge-like stance, while Macleod lingered right where he was, still directing the blade at the transparent shadow that now stood before him. It was only now that he even felt any bogglement concerning the opposite end of this confrontation. 

"What the hell are you?" he asked. 

The figure slowly shifted to his left, while Macleod did the same. 

"...meanest son-of-a-bitch walking the planet..." the recorded voice of Arliss McCormick replied. 

Macleod saw the right hand of the specter reach toward its left forearm, which itself looked to have some strange, thickly-armored guard placed upon it. The fingers of the right hand tapped on the left arm guard for a moment, and sounds escaped indicating that computer buttons were being pressed. As the hand returned to the figure's side, worm-like electrical sparks started to erupt from the body, surrounding its form and accentuating its ulterior countenance without revealing it. At the same time, parts of the body started phasing in and out of visible space, and Macleod started to see just what this THING really was. 

"Come on, Wizard," the Highlander taunted. "Come out from behind your curtain." 

The body parts stopped phasing, and the died died away. The figure was now revealed in all its horrific brilliance. 

And Macleod was left scandalized at the very sight of it. 

An eight-foot-tall monstrosity now stood before him. A slimy, scaly, coarse-looking brown spotted membrane covered what Macleod could only suppose was the creature's skin. The fingertips were nubbed with reptilian claws, as were each of the six toes of each of the feet. On its feet he wore a pair of leathery sandal-like shoes that connected to a pair of metal armor guards that encased the lower legs. Going up the thighs, the legs were also wrapped in some sort of widely-spaced fishnet stocking, but it almost looked as if the pattern was actually tattooed onto the skin of the beast. Around the midsection was a bizarre armored belt with a leatherish loincloth that drooped in front and back of the waist. Even stranger was the thick rope tied around the belt, that had several small, flesh-ridden skulls hung from it, skulls possibly belonging to deceased forest animals. Around the stomach and lower back was more of the fishnet pattern. 

The arms were complemented with two different armguards; on the right was an aerodynamic-looking thing, mechanical in appearance, with a pair of curiously-crafted knife blades, two inches apart, and modeled identical to one another. On the left was a more rectangular solid shape, with a steel panel that featured a black screen that displayed a series of unrecognizable diagrams, and beneath it a column of multi-colored buttons. Further up the left arm were several more pieces of dark grey metal armor, leading up to the left shoulder, shielded by a large automated shoulder guard, that had the frightening accomodation of what looked like some sort of rifle of cannon. Another large piece of metallic protection was laid upon the chest and upper back, connected to a ring of chain mail covering around the neck. 

And then there was the head. 

It was oversized for a human, but from what Macleod had seen looking from the ground up, this was cleary nothing human. The dreadlocks he saw on the invisible shadow were not, as he thought, individual strands tied together, but rather each dreadlock was what appeared to be one single strand of thick, rope-like cable, all sticking out of the back of the scalp. Over the face was a colossal metal veil, shaped to fit the head, which, from the form of the mask, as well did not look human. To top it all off, the two eyes of the mask were lit up with a bright, cold, pale blue light. 

Macleod didn't cower. He simply shifted into his fighting stance, holding the sword with both hands at his side, blade pointing upward, the sharp edge facing the newly-revealed killer of killers. 

The creature reached behind its back with its left hand and pulled forth a silver cylindrical object. It casually held it forward, pressed a button on the side, and like steam from a popped pressure valve, a pair silver blades shot out from either end, forming the same bizarre double-bladed sword that was used to massacre the preceding victims. 

The Highlander gulped. "You can't be an immortal..." he desperately asked, "...can you?" 

Its respone: attack. 

Twirling around the double sword, the creature made it first move against its challenger. Macleod raised his sword and whipped it across his body as he blocked a series of quick attacks from the monster's blade. The monster took a massive swing aimed at Macleod's neck, but Macleod ducked and rolled across the ground and got to his knees. He instantly raised the katana over his head and blocked a backside attack, then rolled backward and onto his hands, just as the monster took another swipe at the Highlander's legs. Once on his hands, Macleod thrashed his legs forward and flipped to his feet, as the monster made yet another attempt on his body while he was on the ground. 

All this in the first seven seconds of the fight! 

Macleod whirled around to face the enemy and immediately backed off, sword pointed forward. The monster's blade had been lodged in the ground from the Highlander's constant dodging. He yanked it out of the ground, twirled it around again, and came at him! Macleod blocked several fast attacks, ducked under another neck slice, then finally came at the monster with attacks of his own! He slashed multiple times at the body. All blocked. The monster thrust his blade toward Macleod's midsection. Macleod blocked with the sword in his right hand and spun to his left, while the creature's momentum sent him forward. Macleod completed his spin and snapped up his right leg, smacking the sole of his boot against the side of the brute's head! 

The creature stumbled sideways and quickly regained his balance, then turned and glared at Macleod with a rage that burned through even those cold eyes of the mask. It then outstretched its right arm, and the two knife blades extended from the arm guard, to a length of six inches past the first row of knuckles on the hand. 

Macleod stared in dread at the view of the newcomer's second weapon of choice. 

The creature came at him again, wildly slashing both the sword and the arm blades at Macleod's head! Macleod worked double time to block the brute's aggressions, as a meteor shower of metallic CLANG!s spewed from the series of hard collisions! Macleod managed to retaliate a few times, and eventually earning the opportunity to send a barrage of air-scraping cuts at the attacker! But the startling swiftness of the predator, along with his multitude of weaponry, allowed him to easily defend himself. Macleod finally got his first shot at the monster's neck, and took it without demur, but the monster managed to raised his sword and blade it! He then shot forth his right hand, aiming the knife blades right at Macleod's neck! The Highlander let go his left hand from the holt of his sword and grabbed hold of the creature's right arm, keeping the blades a safe distance from Macleod's flesh. 

The two competed for control, and both put up a great fight, but after only five seconds, Macleod knew for sure his physical strength was no match for this foreign aggressor. The creature ended the stalemate when he twirled the double sword in a circle, unlocking it from the katana, and slicing one end along the inside of Macleod's right arm! 

Macleod grunted and stumbled back, clutching his bleeding appendage. The monster, without leniency, stepped forward and continued the assault. Macleod decided to spurn the pain in his arm and raised the sword in defense. 

The creature took several massive, powerful swings at Macleod, who blocked each one, getting sent further and further backwards. The creature took one final swing, and Macleod successfully blocked it, but as soon as he did, the creature deflected the katana's blade then swiped the handle of the double sword across Macleod's face! Macleod stumbled backwards, stunned from the hard blow. The creature followed by slicing his right elbow across the face. He continued with a quick kick to the stomach, then finalized this part of the battle with a hard, long slash of the twin blades across the Highlander's chest! 

Macleod screamed as he fell to his knees, placing an arm over both the gouges made in his upper body. The creature still would not relent. He retratced his twin blades and approached Macleod, grabbed him by the collar and lifted him to his feet. Then, like he was light as a feather, Macleod was tossed into the air and sent clear across the rooftop! He rolled over several times, but managed to stop himself before he rolled clear off the ledge. 

The Highlander slowly got to his feet and looked toward his enemy, who stood ten feet away with the double sword in one hand, and the dragon's head katana in the other. The creature tossed the sword into the air, and Macleod easily caught it. He looked up in confusion, but that confusion was ended when he saw the brute coming right at him! Acting purely on reflexes, Macleod rushed forward as well, and when the monster was at just the right distance, he jumped into the air leap-frogged straight over the ogre's head! He landed right behind the creature's back, and they both turned to face one another. The creature took the first swing, but Macleod was ready for it; he blocked, avoided several more following it, diverted the double sword's direction momentarily, then whirled around and zipped the tip of the katana across the air! 

The creature made a very distinguishable cry of pain, and Macleod backed away and saw the fresh wound made on the lower right side of the ogre's torso! 

Despite making his first hit, Macleod looked in pure incredulity at the neon yellow substance oozing from the wound! To make sure he wasn't hallucinating, he lifted his sword and examined the blade; coating the top-most portion of the steel was the same incandescent sap. Was this the monster's blood? 

Macleod distraction then became his mistake, when the creature rushed forward and plowed into him, knocking to the ground. The monster took more wild swings at the Highlander, taking chunk after chunk after chunk out of the concrete with every miscarried slash. Macleod finally rolled to his feet and retaliated with several quickly-executed rips, but all were blocked. The creature again distracted the direction of Macleod's katana, whipped out the double sword, and took another incision across the Highlander's midsection! Macleod yelled in pain and stumbled backwards. The creature took another merciless swipe, catching Macleod across the left arm! Macleod was now blindly staggering around the rooftop, until he stood with his back to the predator, who took a final thrust with the larger blade of the double sword, and made an incredible slit across Macleod's back! 

Macleod screamed again and stumbled forward, then dropped to his knees, wearied from the punishment he was receiving. 

"This can't be possible," he thought. "How can he be beating me!? What IS he?" 

His thoughts were cut short as he felt the monster's hand grab hold of his hair. Macleod was again lifted to his feet, and the creature placed his right hand, knuckles downward, against the worn-out warrior's stomach. The arm blades were shot out again, and Macleod winced as he felt them pierce his flesh and enter his gut! 

With inconceivable strength, the monster raised his right arm and lifted Macleod off the ground. The Highlander felt his feet leave the floor, and managed to open his eyes and see himself suspended in the air by the two cutlasses digging into his intestine. He wanted to fight back; he wanted to do ANYTHING to get himself out of this mess, but his sword was no longer in his possession, not to mention he was simply in too much pain to do anything. 

In the heat of the battle, no one seemed to the notice the storm brewing overhead. Lightning irradiated the darkened heavens, almost in unison of the ogre's motions. He held up the double sword and curled back his arm, getting ready to make that final, cranium-removing, power-emancipating cut. 

Macleod closed his eyes and was almost in tears. In his head, he envisioned the faces of all his greatest advocates and allies, meanwhile making the harsh realization that he'd never see a single one of them ever, ever again. 

"God damn you, Methos," he thought. 


	4. Awful Truth

hvp-3.html **HVP: Highlander vs. Predator******

**Part 3 - Awful Truth**   
****

Macleod thought for certain he was finished. The blades of the monster's arm knives were still digging into the Highlander's torso, as his body ever so slowly started sliding downward, until the wound rest against the creature's fist. The last thing Macleod saw before closing his eyes was the glimmer of a brilliant bolt of lightning reflecting off the long blade of the double-bladed sword as it was raised, indicating the final blow was about to be dealt, quick as a card in a poker game. 

Several moments passed. The pain in his midsection had gone numb, but Macleod knew he wasn't dead. 

"Why am I still alive?" he thought. "He should have killed me by now..." 

He quickly opened his eyes, and saw that the creature's attention was no longer on its soon-to-be sufferer. The metal mask was titled to the side, and the pale blue eyes stared off in the same direction; more precisely, they were staring at its right shoulder. Macleod focused on that shoulder, and saw what was delaying his own demise. 

Resting firmly against the exposed flesh of the alien's neck was the a long, thin steel object, sharpened on both sides, perfectly forming the blade of a medieval broadsword. 

"Drop him," a British-accented voice demanded. 

The Highlander heard a familiar tone to the sound of those words. He senses had been dulled by the pain, but he could still find something recognizable. 

"I told you to drop him," the voice repeated. 

"Methos?" Macleod powerlessly called. 

Macleod focused his progressively-blurring vision to look behind the monster's back, and the face of the sword's bearer was revealed, and it was indeed Methos, the world's oldest living immortal. He held out the hilt of the sword, pressing the blade deeper into the skin of the hunter's neck. The neon sludge that was the creature's blood slowly oozed downward. 

"I wouldn't take these warnings lightly," Methos said fiercely. "Now I'll say it one last time, you vulgar, war-mongering monstrosity...Drop him." 

A few more seconds passed. Then, without a single care for the victim, Macleod was tossed off the arm blades and painfully onto the rooftop. Macleod grunted in agony, then looked up to continue monitering the confrontation between monster and immortal. Methos stood tall, still holding the blade to the creature's neck. Meanwhile, the cold, mechanical eyes still stared holes through Methos's skull. 

"Well here we both are," Methos said. "We've changed much, you and I." His eyes swiveled downward, then back upward while he examined the monster's wardrobe. "Nice uniform. I notice a few technological advancements; quite impressive. It's no wonder I didn't recognize your handiwork earlier. The only tipoff was the roof over Joe's bar. I'd have never suspected you were here until then." 

The growl-like clicking sound resonated from the hunter's helmet. 

"I'll hand it to you, though," Methos continued. "That mask, garrish as it is, is certainly an improvement." 

In an instant reply, the monster whirled around and swung the sword, aiming for Methos's head! Methos quickly maneuvered the sword and blocked the attack. Immediately following, the creature shot forth its right arm, extending the blades and aiming for the head as well. Methos again acted quickly, shifting the sword horizontally and thrusting it sideways, blocking the attack and diverting the blades. Then, with incredible agility, Methos ducked a second attack from the double sword, swept underneath the huge arm, and meanwhile lashed the blade of his sword across the hunter's stomach! 

The monster hunced over and growled, while Methos stopped behind its back, when whirled around and dropped his sword. He grabbed a hold of the creature's left arm, then dragged it towards the roof and, in another display of adrenalin-powered stength, Methos tossed the eight-foot-tall beast off his feet and off the roof, hurling the creature away like it was a sack of garbage! 

Methos casually peered over the edge of the roof and saw the monster several meters below him. It had stopped its sudden descent by grabbing the rail of a conviently-located fire escape. There it hung by its right arm, glaring back up at the immortal with the blue eyes that glowed with rage. 

"Consider that a dosage of payback, old friend," Methos called irately. "Enjoy the city of New York." 

The monster repositioned his grip on the rail so that its left arm was hanging on. The right arm reached up and tapped the buttons of the left, and the creature's form began to becloud, until there was nothing left but that same scenery-distorting ghost. A flash of lightning lit up the alley, and the shadow could be seen dropping downward, but in the frenzy of the storm, Methos lost track of it. The only trace of it seen afterward was a huge splash in a puddle down below, followed by a rapidly escaping series of footsteps that dissolved into the darkness. 

Methos sneered at the enemy's corwardice, then retrieved his sword and slid it into his coat. He then walked over to the still grounded Duncan Macleod, who sat staring in disbelief. Methos stood over him, a look of extreme apology on his gaunt face. 

"I believe I owe you a long overdue explanation." 

**** 

Macleod winced as the bandage on his arm was applied, and the antiseptic ointment applied to the underside touched the open wound. He jerked, and Kate grimaced as her delicate work was distrubed. She loosened the bandage a little, then began to wrap it again. 

"Would you please stop fidgeting?" she demanded. "You may be immortal, and you may bleed like the rest of them, but I would think you're adult enough to withstand a little elementary first aid." 

"All right, Methos," Macleod said, ignoring Kate's comments. "Start talking." 

"Yeah," Dawson added. "I wanna hear every word of this." 

Methos paced back and forth across the floor of Joe's back room, fingers locked behind his back, staring into space with the deepest of thought. 

"Well..." he started. "I suppose it's useless to say it now, but our new friend is, without a doubt, something...other than human." 

"We know that," Macleod razzed. "What do you know about him?" 

"And for God's sake, be truthful this time," said Kate. "If you keep dodging us now, who knows what'll happen the next time someone stands up to that monster." 

"1942," was Methos's reply. 

"What?" asked Dawson. "What about 1942?" 

Methos stepped over to the side of the room and plopped into a slightly rickety wooden chair. He wiped a layer of sweat from his brow, and fingered the handle of his sword, which was set to lean against the wall nearby. He rolled the hilt from side to side, spinning the weapon across the floor on the tip of its blade. Methos titled his head back and closed his eyes, and he recalled his traumatizing story: 

"1942. Europe. The start of World War II was three years past, and I was hiding out among the British army. I was promoted to a lieutenant, if only because the man previously in that position had been shot in the head several hours before. It was January of that year; our platoon got into a bloody bit of a skurmish along the northern coast of France. A small, secret Nazi camp was rumored to have been set up in that area; our group was sent to investigate, confirm or deny the rumor, and if it was true, deal with it accordingly. We spent twenty long days in that colorless forest; among the snow and the dead wood. We never found any Nazi camp, but we did run into a renegade Nazi infantry, en route north toward Britain to weaken their southern defense. A fight broke out, and thirty men in my sanction were killed. We ran into a denser part of the woods to escape our enemies, and all fifteen of us hid there, shivering from the cold, without food or sufficient supplies to survive it. For all we knew, we could be spending months there, and if that was the case, all of them but me would die. We'd never find that out for sure, though. 

"About two days after we took shelter in our little hideout, I was keeping watch one night, and I saw what looked like a shooting star zooming across the sky. It fell towards the horizon, and just as I fell asleep, a heard a boom, like something incredibly large had just crash-landed into the planet. I overlooked it, thinking it was only a meteor. 

"Then, a week later, every one but two men were asleep. The other two were keeping watch. A noise woke me up, and I looked into the trees overhead in time to catch sight of a dark shape creeping above our camp; quiet as a mouse, and twice as nimble. A went back to sleep for a few more minutes, and then I woke up again...at the sound of men screaming." 

Macleod uncomfortably shifted in his seat while Methos told his story. 

"The rest of the men woke up, and looked around the area for the two missing guardsmen. Then, we found them, most unexpectedly. Or more accurately, they were given back to us, having been dropped from the trees. Massive stab wounds and slash marks to the chest and stomach. Holes literally dug into their midsections, the intenstines having been removed. It was the most sickening scene I'd ever beheld in all my five thousand years. Three more died that night, vomitting to death from seeing the bodies. We promptly buried them to prevent the spread of disease, and we attempted to go back to sleep, with two more men assigned to keep watch. More noises woke up the camp during the course of the night, and fortunately, no more people were killed. Instead, two holes had been fissured into the earth, and the two bodies were missing. The guards said they had their backs turned for only a minute, and then there was some sort of explosion. When the dust cleard, they found the holes had been made, and the bodies taken." 

Macleod was beginning to dread that familiarity taking shape from this. 

"Three more nights passed, and seven more were killed. All of them were night watchmen, and all of them were of course armed when they were killed. Every time, the bodies were stolen, and sometimes found later with the heads removed. And all the while, I kept looking up in those trees, and I kept seeing that black shape; gargantuan, and humanoid. It was like seeing Frankenstein's monster crawling around the branches like a puma. And every once in a while, I could see only a small part of its body; an arm, a hand...and once...its face. I thought I was hallucinating; I thought hunger and fatigue were making me see something that couldn't possibly be real. 'I couldn't have been real, it just couldn't!' I thought. Those eyes...those teeth...the skin and the hair...He was wearing a mask this time, but I know what he is underneath it...you never forget a face like that... 

"And then there was that feeling...You know what I'm talking about, Macleod. The buzz in your head when you find someone who could become an immortal, but they hadn't died their first death just yet. I'd felt it countless times before, so I recognized it on the spot. But there was something different about it. Something was very, very wrong about this sensation, and even more about the one emitting it. The mind of this immortal-to-be was either as diseased as the gangrene on the soldiers' wounds, or there was power behind that mind that no man or immortal born of Earth could ever possess. It was dark. Murderous. Evil. 

"By the fourth day and the eighth murder, we knew it was time to get out of there. There were only four of us left, and we all agreed we'd rather face the brunt of nature's wrath and all of Hitler's army than stay there and die at the hands of that monster, whatever the hell it was. We packed up as much food and weapons as we could carry and hustled off, half-expecting to die, half-determined to survive. Somehow I knew I would be the only man to leave that forest alive, should we even escape the brute. Damn it all to hell, I hate it when I'm right." 

As he spoke, he rose from the chair and poured himself a drink from a bottle and glass set on a wall-side table. He downed the alcohol on a single echoing gulp, then pitched the shotglass across the room in a tantrum, sending it shattering through the shaded window. After several slow, deep breaths, Methos leaned against the wall and slid along it until he sat upon the floor. He wiped the sweat from his forehead again, and continued on with his story. 

"We never had a chance," he said. "The other three dropped like flies minutes after we started to leave. The monster finally revealed himself, and destroyed my remaining soldiers in a total time of two and a half seconds. And then...there was me. All I could at first was stand there, shivering like a frightened child, the gun in my hand, but my trigger finger frozen like the rest of body. I got my first really good look at that face, and my soul sunk all the way to my frostbitten toes when I realized that horrid visage wasn't an illusion. I was standing there, locking eyes with a god damn creature from another world! He eyed me from head to toe, growled that clicking noise of his, then shot out those arm blades of his and came straight at me! 

"I knew the gun wasn't going to help me for shit, so I tossed it, and almost on reflex, I reached inside my coat and drew my sword. He had quite an upper hand against me; five thousand years of swordfighting experience, and it didn't do me one fucking bit of good against him. His speed and strength were beyond even the likes of Kronos or the Kurgan. Beyond even Jacob Kell. Beyond even me." 

"If he was that good, how did you beat him?" asked Kate. 

"Lucky shot," Methos answered. "A damn lucky shot. I managed to catch him off guard for a moment...a fucking MOMENT! He had me so badly beaten, I didn't look any better than the bodies he was leaving behind for the past four days; all I needed was a missing head and you couldn't tell me from the others. 

"I knocked him against a tree after he removed my sword from my grip. I threw some snow in his face, and I finally managed to blind him. Then, I found this big rock just lying on the ground, so picked it up, and I hit him across that disgusting, drool-spewing face of his. He went down, and I hit him with that rock a few more time. That yellow bile of his was splattering across the snow by now, but oh no, I was far from done! He wasn't moving, but I knew for sure he wasn't dead. So I picked up my sword, and I stabbed him right through the heart! Or through the chest, anyway; I didn't know where his heart really was. I took out the sword, and stabbed him again. And again, and again...and again and again and again and again and again! And I just kept stabbing and stabbing him; he was screaming, blood was flying from the blade, splashing on my clothes, oozing from the hole I was gouging in his chest. And when I knew for sure he was dead, I backed away, and I ran! I ran like hell! God only knows why I didn't end it. Why, for God's sake, in his name and all his blasted glory, why didn't I cut off the bastard's head!?!" 

Methos buried his head in his hands, almost crying. Several more deep breaths escaped his lungs, then he looked up and met the astounded faces of the three-member audience. Dawson's eyes were almost bugging out of his head, and Kate was tightly gripping Macleod, who sat with that half-eyed stare of his. 

"His technology has improved since then," Methos said. "Before, all he had was the armor and those two knives on his right hand. The shoulder gun, and that whole invisiblity thingumajig is news to me. The only way I recognized him when I saw that shadow was from the shape of the body; the stature, the claws, not to mentions those dreadlocks were dead giveaways." 

"What do we do about him?" asked Macleod. 

Methos looked up at him and found himself fearful by the Highlander's irritated gaze. 

"Well?" 

"You're asking me?" he asked. 

"Of course I'm asking you!" Macleod snapped. "You were able to kill him once! He can be killed again!" 

"That was different!" Methos argued. "He didn't have the Quickenings he has now, so he wasn't as fast or as strong. And I told you before, I only beat him because of one lucky shot, one that couldn't possible come again! This is a completely different type of being, Mac! Who knows what effect the Quickening has on his body? Without that power, he's already stronger and faster than any man alive; just how bad is he with the strength of the world's most powerful immortals to back him up? It's difficult enough to put a scratch on him at all; it's a titanic of a problem trying to get anywhere near his head. And besides, he wasn't even an immortal back then..." 

"But we have YOU to thank for that," Macleod said accusingly. 

"Duncan!" scolded Kate. "Methos, no one blames you for what you did. But you have to have some idea what can be done about this!" 

"I wish I did," Methos replied. "But now that he's a full part of the game, it isn't like we can just shotgun him or something. We still have to abide by a certain level of honor, even if it means withstanding HIS weapons of choice." 

"What do you mean he's a part of the game!?" Dawson sputtered. "Methos, have you even been listening to what you've been telling us!? What you're describing is preposterous! Not only have you just told us that alien hunters have descended upon our planet, but that one of them has become an immortal like you and Mac! Even if you're right, he can't be in the game; he probably doesn't even know the rules, let alone follow them!" 

"I know this all sounds like a bad Roger Corman movie, Joe, but just bear with me, please!" said Methos. "He knows the rules, and he's following them, all right, and some of his own to boot. The Quickening, Joe, remember? It's not just the strength and live essense; it's the knowledge and the skill that goes with it. He could have learned the rules from the very first head he took." 

"And what about HIS rules?" asked Kate. 

"They're easy enough to understand," Methos answered, as he rose from the floor. "Don't attack an unarmed target, and never be afraid to take a cheap shot. They're actually not too unlike some of our own codes of conduct, now that I think about it." 

"Oh, great!" Macleod cynically hailed. "All we need are a couple bazookas and the ability to erase ourselves from human sight, and we'll be just FINE!" 

"Duncan, calm down," Kate begged him. 

"Mac, I'm sorry for the secrecy, but--" 

As Methos came towards him, Macleod shoved Kate away from him, shot out of his chair, quickly stepped forward, and rammed his clenched right fist directly into Methos's unsuspecting jaw. Methos almost flew of his feet and landed laboriously on the hard wooden floor. Dawson squawked in disapproval at the Highlander's enraged actions, while Kate rushed over and helped Methos back to his feet. 

"That was unappreciated," he said, nursing his aching mouth, "but probably deserved." 

"You had EVERY opportunity to tell us what was going on!" Macleod yelled. "You almost got me killed!" 

"No, Highlander, YOU did!" Methos shot back. "I warned you from the start that you weren't ready for this! I told you, 'Don't go out there, Macleod, you don't stand a chance!' And what did you do? You went out there and challenged him head on! I warned you you'd be killed, but it was YOU who didn't listen!" 

"And did those worms on a hook you sent out before me have any better a chance against him?" Macleod quipped. "Maybe you didn't get ME killed, but you sure as hell got THEM killed!" 

"ENOUGH!" Kate screeched. 

All eyes turned towards her. 

"I'm so sick of all the blaming, and the accusations, and all the bullshit that's getting flung around the room here!" she boomed. "You two seem to have forgotten the real awful truth here that that animal is still out there, and SOMEBODY has to take him down! Now I don't care how long it takes, or how much booze it takes, but settle this little bitchfight of yours, or I will! With a chainsaw, if need be! Dawson, I don't know about you, but I NEED A DRINK!" 

On that odd thought, she stormed away from the battling twosome and exited the room, noisily slamming the door behind her. The three man stared in shock at her refereeing fuss. 

"I'll go after her..." Dawson nervously stated. "She's pretty pissed; I just wanna make sure she doesn't clean me out." 

He limped away and calmly reopened and closed the door on his way out. Now all that was left was the oldest living immortal and the Highlander. There was an awkward silence between them; Methos felt guilt for having kept secrets from his friend and indeed almost getting him killed, while Macleod began to feel just a little sorry for accusing him of such, and then hitting him. 

"Methos..." he finally said. "You fought him once before...Can you fight him again?" 

"No," Methos quickly replied. "I couldn't possibly. He's become far too strong for me...But not for you." 

"I already tried..." Macleod argued. 

"Mac, there's much more to this battle than simple comparisons of strength," Methos interrupted. "You are the most powerful immortal walking the Earth, and you are the only man capable of fighting off this predator. All you lack now is the proper skill." 

"What do you mean?" 

"There's a pattern to the way he fights," he explained. "A rhythm of sorts that must be memorized. He'll try things that the immortals knew of and that he's learned from taking their power, but underneath it all, there is still that core system of fighting that he studied before even coming to this planet. And before you can dream of taking him on again, you need to learn every step of it...And I can teach it to you." 

Macleod stared in disbelief. "You only fought him once..." he said. 

"I know," Methos replied. "But I've had a couple decades to ponder it. I look back on that one battle, and I remember every step he took, every slash of his swords, and ever since that night, I've been able to discern a fighting style that he uses in hand-to-hand and weapon-based combat. I know it, and I can teach it. And you're going to need it when you face the monster again." 

Slowly, a look of reassuring optimism branded itself on Duncan Macleod's face. 

"First thing's first," Methos said with a smile. "You need a good night's rest, and opportunity for those wounds to heal, and meanwhile, I believe our lovely friend Kate was onto...I could use a drink myself." 

He headed for the door and walked out, but turned back to Macleod one last time to say: 

"Rest well, Highlander. Come morning, you've got some hard training to do." 

**** 

Methos found an open field of grass a half an hour's drive away from the New York city limits. It was a remote area; there were no residential areas for miles, and therefore no people to spy on the training session that was now at hand. Only three people could bear witness to this event; Duncan Macleod, Methos, and the Watcher Joe Dawson. 

"Dawson what are YOU doing here?" asked Macleod. 

"I asked him here," Methos answered. 

"And besides, this is Watcher history in the making!" Dawson exclaimed. "Duncan Macleod, the Highlander, the strongest living immortal, taking a lesson from Methos, the oldest living immortal! I'd be stupid NOT to be taking all of this down!" 

"This is to get you off the hook for those skinned bodies, isn't it?" 

Dawson sneered at him, then continued writing in his notepad. 

"All right, Macleod, I want you to pay close attention to everything that I say and do," Methos instructed. "I'll say and demonstrate it once, so if you don't get it now, don't ever expect to. Give me half a chance, and I'll be more intemperate a teacher than either Connor Macleod or the man who taught him. I will scratch and claw at you until your skin is raw and your pores bleed unless you follow each and every one of my directives without question or hesitation. This is for survival, Macleod, both yours and mine. With the opposition we face, the outcome of the game and therefore the fate of our world rests squarely on your ample Scottish shoulders. Defeat translates into death for all. I am coming in clear?" 

"As a bell." 

"Then you and I will get along just fine," he said. "Joe, those items I requested, please." 

Dawson reached into the trunk of the nearby parked car and removed two loosely-wrapped items; one was a small, thick, one foot long item, the other was skinny and measured several feet. Dawson handed them both to Methos, then hobbled back over to the sidelines. Methos unwrapped the cloth covering from both packages, revealing them to the eyes; the small item was an armguard of some sort that strapped to Methos's right arm from a few leather chords. The longer item was a double-bladed sword, one obviously modeled to be used in the same manner as the creature's weapon. Methos held the sword in his left hand expertly twirled it around. Macleod stood with his katana in his grasp, holding it out before him in classic defensive fashion. 

The two stood motionless for a moment, then Methos stepped forward and casually attacked. He swung the longer blade of the double sword at Macleod, intentionally doing so slowly enough so that Macleod could easily block. 

"His primary fighting arm is his left," Methos started. "He's trained himself to use that arm solely for handling the sword, and he'll therefore greatly favor his left side when in battle. The blades on his right arm he can use with quite an impressive expertise, but it's practically useless on its own if he's planning to remove any heads. I've surmised that the right arm is only for backup." 

With this new knowledge, Macleod attempted to disarm his teacher. Stylishly maneuvering the blade of his katana, his plan was to knock the sword from Methos's left hand, and at the same time deflect any attacks from the right. However, Methos, with astonishing skill, foiled Macleod's plans, and the exercise ended with the long blade of the double sword pressed against the Highlander's throat.   
  
"Regardless, never interpret that for meaning that any side is weaker than the other. Remember one thing above all, Macleod. This is a predator who's dangerous from forehead to foreskin. Every part of his anatomy is engineered for stern combat. So never take a single strand of it lightly." 

The blade was removed from Macleod's neck, and Methos backed away. He walked several feet and stood with his back to the student. 

"Attack me." 

Without hesitation, Macleod ran up from behind and aimed his blade at Methos's neck. Methos whirled around and blocked the attack, and the blades were interlocked, leaving Methos and Macleod at a standoff. 

"You've already seen yourself in this position before," Methos dictated. "The long blade is designed for attack, while the shorter..." 

Methos twirled the long blade towards himself and unlocked the swords, and continued spinning until the shorter blade was about to make a cut along the inside of Macleod's right arm. Methos stopped the blade just before it struck. 

"...is for such situations as this. Here's a tip: the next he tries something like that, turn the point of your sword towards your left elbow and thrust it sideways. If he spins the long blade away from you, thrust to your right, handle-first; if he spins it towards you, thrust to your left, blade-first." 

Macleod nodded in agreement. Methos walked away again and stood in the same starting slot. 

"Attack me." 

A second later, the two immortals were in the exact same position as before. But this time, Methos threw a curveball; he first tried the same trick as before, but faked it and spun in the blade in the opposite direction, meanwhile making a 360-degree turn counter clockwise. Macleod turned the sword horizontally and thrust the end of the handle towards his left side. As the long blade came towards Macleod, the katana met the attack and diverted it, and after several quick attacks from both contenders, Macleod ended it when his sword would make a cut along Methos's torso. But he too stopped before the metal met the flesh. Methos looked down at his stomach, then looked up at Macleod with a slight smirk. 

"But not unlike us," he said, "he's known to improvise a good deal." 

Macleod backed away and held the sword in the defensive tone. 

"Again?" he asked. 

**** 

Hours later. 

Methos had upgraded the training so that he now used both the double-bladed sword and the armguard on his right hand, an apparatus meant to simulate the twin arm blades that was the monster was known to use. Just like before, Macleod had to work double time to defend himself. 

"He'll almost always use one hand after the other!" Methos shouted as he attacked. "Every once in a while, though..." 

He took a swipe at Macleod with the sword, then immediately followed with another one. Macleod was just barely able to deflect it, but Methos instantly struck him in the stomach with a swift upward boot. Macleod fell backwards and rolled until he was on his feet again, holding up the sword for defense. Methos, however, did not continue the attack. 

"...He'll throw something else at you, just to throw you off. To distract you. Then, he'll take the first opportunity--" 

"To take a cheap shot, I know," Macleod said. 

"You're learning," Methos replied happily, extending a helping hand to his fallen friend. "The trick to anticipating his move when he's using both weapons is to watch his footwork. When he's slashing at you, he'll constantly be stepping towards you. When he attacks with the left, his right foot will be in front of him, and vice versa. But, if he's planning to repeat a move, that same foot won't fall back; he'll keep moving forward on that foot. Words to live by: watch the dance, and you won't grow a second left foot." 

Without warning, he lunged forward and started slashing the weapons again! Macleod quickly defended himself, throwing his sword back and forth as he blocked the attacks that came on any side, meanwhile keeping an eye on Methos's footsteps. He stepped out with his right foot and delivered an attack from his left arm. Afterward, he continued forward with his right foot, and quickly delivered the same attack. Macleod raised his sword in a manner that blocked it, then he reached underneath Methos's legs with his left arm, scooped him off the ground, and hurled him over his shoulder, slamming him against the dirt! 

Macleod backed away, sword in hand, pointing the blade at Methos, who slowly got to his feet, grinning with approval. 

**** 

Several more hours passed, and the training session went as well as expected. Macleod and Methos entered Joe's bar sweating and panting, while Dawson followed behind him, swords in hand, wrapped in the cloths to conceal them from mortal eyes. They headed straight for the bar and sat down, exchanging humorous quips about the session. 

"Admit, it hurt when I knocked you on your ass!" Methos challenged. 

"No more than when I tossed you into the mud!" Macleod replied. 

"All right, all right, knock it off, you two!" Dawson ordered. "We've got people in here, ya know." 

Dawson reached behind the counter and withdrew two shotglasses and a bottle of liquor. He handed a shotglass to both immortals, then proceeded to fill them to the brim. With a clink of the glass, they quickly downed the drinks, then set the cups back on the table for more. 

"So, what now, Mac?" asked Methos. "Do you feel ready for the next round?" 

"To be honest, I don't know," Macleod answered. "I thought I was before, and I almost died. There's no telling what'll happen this time around...What about you? What do you think?" 

"Well, I knew you weren't ready before," Methos said. "I asked you now if you felt ready, and you say you don't know. That may be a better sign than you think. There's an ancient proverb that states, 'A warrior's greatest ally is the knowledge of his weaknesses.' I've known you for nearly a decade, Macleod, and I believe your weaknesses grow fewer and further between, and all because of your willingness to learn. And today proves that part of you shows no limit; and I believe that is most definitely a good thing." 

They clinked their drinks together again and drank. 

"I think after today, that sword of yours will do you a lot more good to you than ever before," Dawson said, placing Macleod's katana on the counter, wrapped in the cloth. 

Macleod stared thoughtfully at the sword, and at the end of the hilt sticking out from underneath the cloth. He picked it up from the counter and held it in his hands, caressing his fingers along the carefully carved ivory of the handle. He clicked his fingernail against the dragon head's gritted teeth, then set the weapon back down again and continued staring at it. 

"I'm gonna need more than this." 

"Huh?" asked Dawson. 

"What do you mean?" asked Methos. 

"I'm good, you said that yourself," Macleod explained, "but I still feel a little odd about this. I want something else out there with me. That monster has his backup. I think the next time I go out there to meet him, I'll bring some of my own." 

He then looked up at Dawson and gave him a look that spoke speeches of its own. Dawson nodded, then headed for the storage room. 

"What's this all about?" asked Methos. 

"You have your secrets, I have mine," was Macleod's cold reply. 

Dawson came back out of the storage carrying with him a long black suitcase. He came up behind the bar and set the case on the bar. Macleod stared at the lid, which displayed a silver emblem upon it, the coat of arms of the Clan Macleod. The case was a little dusty, but the silver still shined underneath the neon lights. 

"Here ya go, pal," he said. 

The phone rang, and Dawson stepped off to the side to answer it. Meanwhile, Macleod still stared at the suitcase. 

"What's in there?" Methos asked. 

Macleod slowly unsnapped the buckles on the lid and opened it up to reveal its contents. Methos stared in astonishment at the item within, then looked strangely at the Highlander. 

"I'd have thought you'd have it buried with him," he said. 

"He told me a long time ago," Macleod said, "that if anything ever happened to him, he wanted me keep this. He said, 'Keep it good shape, and if you have to, use it well.'...I never thought I would until now." 

As they spoke, they didn't notice that Dawson had been behind the counter talking disputatiously on the phone. 

"What!?" he demanded. "When? When did she go?...Well, yes, you idiot! Tail her!...Don't argue with me, just do it!" 

He slammed the phone back on the reciever and rushed back over to Methos and Macleod. 

"Mac, we have problems!" he said. 

"What's the matter?" 

"It's Kate," Dawson explained. "She's gone off to find the monster...alone." 

"WHAT!?!" 

"I just heard about this now!" Dawson said. "She left for the alley about twenty minutes ago! If you go now, maybe you can catch her and talk her out of it!" 

Macleod agreed whole-heartedly, and he didn't even need to speak to show it. He closed the suitcase and re-fastened the snaps, then snatched the case in one hand and his sword in the other. Racing like the wind, he swooshed out the door and ran for his car! The last thing Methos and Dawson heard was the sound of screeching tires and the distant roar of Macleod screaming, "Get out of the way!" 

Dawson stared at the still-swinging door, then swiveled his head towards Methos, who met him with the exact same confused stare. 

"Answer me honestly, old friend," Dawson said. "Does he even have a prayer?" 

Methos closed his eyes and concentrated, then opened them and eyed the empty shotglasses and the liquor bottle standing next to it. He grabbed the bottle and poured the liquid into his shotglass, set the bottle down, and gulped down the drink a third time. While he then leaned backward and exhaled deeply, Dawson shook his in disgust and walked away, finally realizing that Methos had absolutely no intention of answering the question. 


	5. Last Stand

hvp-4.html **HVP - Highlander vs. Predator**

**Part 4 - Last Stand**   


Steam and smoke rose from the air vents coming out the ground throughout the alley. A few pipes jutting out of the building walls had a few leaks, contributing to the view-blocking fog. Fortunately, a strong wind consistently blew the fog away, and it dissipated as it was carried off. Faint sirens could be heard over the hissing of released steam, and a few shouts of an accosted pedestrian echoed in momentarily; what typical New York racket. 

Kate drew her sword, a thin, long broadsword, one not unlike that which the immortal known as Amanda was known to carry. Lightweight, but with a durable blade that did the job when needed; she knew this from adequate experience. 

How many heads had she severed? Ten, no eleven since she last saw Duncan. Eleven Quickenings. A relatively small number compared to the likes of Macleod or the more experienced head-hunters, but as Joe Dawson kepts mentioning, it wasn't so much the number of Quickenings, but more the strength of each one that determined an immortal's true power. And the owners of those eleven heads were no simple fare by any means. 

Only eleven heads...but good ones. 

Would they be enough for her future encounter? Her gut feeling said no. Her heart agreed, as did her fighting spirit, tenacious as it was. But it felt more content to stand up and face the monster head-on, rather that sit back as watch it dispatch any more helpless immortals...particularly Duncan Macleod. 

Ah, Duncan...He was hard-headed, overly valiant, and at times even a schmuck...but he was HER schmuck. And if this creep thought he was putting its hands on him again, she'd have to inform it it was sorely mistaken. 

Kate stopped as she felt the buzz in her head. But it was a much stronger feeling than she was used to; it hit her like a razer blade to the frontal lobe. It was a buzz unlike any other she'd ever felt. And it was very, very close. 

Footsteps...faint ones. Someone else was in this alley. A small scratching sound accompanied each step. 

SHHHHHHKKTT...A long metal blade was being unsheathed. 

A deep, gutteral clicking pierced Kate's ears. It was the same animalistic noise Macleod had described to her after his narrow escape. 

A shadow appeared in the middle of the alley; not even a shadow, in fact. A mere outline of a eight-foot-tall figure, brandishing a massive double-bladed sword. Kate stiffened her body in a defensive fashion, her sword arm outstretched before her, the tip of the blade pointed directly at the shadow. It disappeared in only a second, but she knew it was no hallucination. 

"Come out, come out, wherever you are..." she sang. 

She saw it again, again for only a second, moving towards her. A quick flash of pale blue light outlined the eyes of the mask. 

"You wanna play the Invisible Man gig all day," she challenged, relaxing her body, "or you wanna come out and dance?" 

The specter appeared a third time, and did not disappear. A cloud of steam spewed up from a nearby vent, and a current of wind blew it off to the side. Kate's view of the approaching figure was momentarily obscured. When the steam moved out of her eyesight, she could still see the figure, but its artificial veil had been lifted. The creature stepped out of its shadow and made its way towards the unafraid femme. 

Kate could barely keep down her bile. The sight of the monster was near vomit-inducing, especially when she took a look at the areas where Duncan and Methos had wounded it; the cuts had been glazed over by some variety of manufactured scab, like the monster spread some sort of ointment over them that hardened into a brown and black crusty substance, while remnants of the neon blood still stained the skin around it. A disgusting sight indeed, but Kate still found it satisfying to know the monster hadn't escaped its last human encounter without a mark to show for it. 

The monster kept walking forward until it stood about two feet from Kate. Being as small as she was, Kate was dwarfed by the alien to quite a high degree, but this did not faze her in the least. She still stood tall, still stared the metal mask right in its eyes. She snorted a long puff of steam of her nostrils, and tightened her grip on her sword. 

The monster lifted its right arm, and the twin blades snapped forward from the device fastened to it. He gently brought the tips of the blades to her face, and slowly ran them along her cheek, while Kate stood perfectly still. The skin remained unbroken. 

"I don't have a chance, do I?" she asked. "I know I'm no match for you. Even if you weren't an immortal, I still couldn't beat you." 

The alien titled its head slightly and released another clicking sound. The cannon device lifted up from its left shoulder and pointed itself at Kate's head. Three laser light lit up on the side of the device, and Kate felt a warm sensation upon her forehead. A light inside the barrel of the cannon turned on, and it quickly grew brighter and brighter, while a mechanical sound indicated the increase in the weapon's power. 

"Don't get me wrong, pal, you're scary," she continued. "But I get pretty freaky myself." 

She whisked up her sword and struck the face of the blade against the underside of the cannon device, knocking it away from her head. The cannon fired just as she hit it, and the blast shot straight into the air, exploding some twenty feet above. 

The monster swung the long blade of the double sword at Kate's neck. She easily blocked, then ducked as the twin arm blades came at her next. She dodged behind the creature's back and blocked a quick sideways attack from the double blade, then held up her sword as stabbed it over her right shoulder, lancing the blade in the creature's armor plate! The monster shrieked in pain, and sparks erupted from the armor. The cannon started swiveling wildly from side to side, malfunctioning from the stab. Kate ripped the sword from the creature's shoulder, whirled around, and made a quick slash along the backside. 

Kate backed away, pointing the blade in the monster's direction. The monster clutched his backside as he turned towards her. He turned his attention to the uncontrolled movements of the shoulder cannon. He tapped some buttons on his left armguard to try and regain control, but all that happened as a result were more sparks exploding from the stab area. Frustrated, the creature grabbed hold of the cannon barrel and ripped the entire apparatus from his armor. He tossed the now-useless device off to the side, and his head turned back in Kate's direction. 

"There..." she said. "Now that suits you a littler better." 

The twin blades snapped back into the right arm guard, and the creature came barreling towards Kate. She twirled her broadsword before her and held it over her head to block the enemy's first attack. The strength of the monster's blow knocked Kate back a few feet, but she managed to keep her balance and raise her sword again in time to divert the next few attacks. The monster took a wide swing at her head, but she ducked underneath and again dodged behind its back. The creature spun around and took another shot at her neck, but she blocked it and was sent stumbling back a few more feet. The creature lunged forward and thrust the tip of the longer blade at her stomach. Kate dodged sideway and interlocked the blade of her sword with th creature's, changed the alien sword's direction, and forced it into the ground. She then hopped off the ground and thrust the toe of her boot against the side of the monster's mask! 

The creature lost his grip on the double sword and stumbled to the side, while Kate landed on her legs in splits position. She twirled onto her feet and plucked the monster's sword from the ground. When the monster was on his feet, she politely tossed it to him. He easily caught it and stared blankly. 

Kate raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and charged. 

She made a quick series of attacks at the midsection, all easily blocked. She lunged and thrust her blade, must the monster simply side-stepped and shoved her past him, using her own momentum to disrupt her advance. She went head-first into a wall and stumbled to the ground. When she rolled onto her back, and dodged out of the way just as the monster's sword came downward, slicing a nearby pipe clean in half. A white steam spewed forth from one half of it, sprawing directly into the creature's eyes. The beast stumbled in surprise as his vision was cut off. 

Kate saw an opening and dived right in. She again charged and leapt at him, and thrust her sword hoping to impale the monster through the chest. However, the monster saw her coming and averted the attack. He interlocked his arm with her and tossed her right over his shoulder. She acrobatically landed on her feet and turned towards the monster, then jumped back and performed a beautiful backward cartwheel, kicking the beast in the head. The monster stumbled back again, and Kate landed perfectly. 

While the beast shook off the blow, Kate charged a third time and jumped into the air, aiming a high jumping kick at the head. The monster recovered from the kick and caught her entire body, lifted her up, then slammed her back-first onto the ground. Kate writhed for a moment, but managed to dodge as the beast snapped open his twin blades once again and thrust them downward. They gored themselves in the ground as Kate moved out of the way, but she wasn't quite fast enough; as she rolled, the blades managed to make a sizable scratch along her right arm. As she tried to get back up, the beast kicked her in the stomach. She bounced away from him and finally got up. She took a look at her midsection, and saw four small scratches from the talons on the monster's foot. 

She looked up again and caught a strong backhand. She was knocked right down again and rolled flat onto her back, almost unconscious. 

The monster raised the long blade high into the air and took aim at the neck. 

Kate had all the strength to look up and see the blade held high over the creature's head. She gulped and shut her eyes. 

The beast motioned to let the sword drop, when he suddenly stopped. He relaxed his grip on the handle of his sword, and looked in all directions, like he was searching for something. 

Her head was in a lot of pain, but Kate could feel it too; the presence of yet another immortal. 

Footsteps echoed, and became louder and clearer. The monster turned around to see a shadow approaching from the veil of smoke still spewing from the ground vents. A single man, armed with a samurai blade. His long coat blew furiously in the wind that accompanied his entrance. 

"I am Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod," he said. 

He stepped out of the shadows, and he was revealed to be extactly who he claimed to be. He held out the katana and pointed the blade at the monster's head. 

"And I'm the one you really want," he finished. 

An brutish screech discharged from the monster's lungs, and he charged head first at Macleod. Macleod went into the defensive as the monster came closer. When he beast was about to reach him, Macleod ducked underneath the monster's torso, grabbed hold of one arm, and dragged the creature's entire body over his head! The beast rolled over till he was on his knees, where he met a swift boot to the face from Macleod. The monster went down once again, and stayed there for a few moments. 

Macleod rushed over to Kate, who was just getting up. Macleod took her by the hand and hauled her to her feet, and together they dashed off around a corner. 

When they were in hiding, Macleod stopped Kate by the shoulder and spun her around in his direction. 

"You wanna tell me what the hell were you thinking!?" he demanded. 

"Right now, I'm thinking of getting the fuck out of here!" she replied. 

"So why weren't you thinking of that BEFORE you decided to come here!?" 

"I didn't want to see him kill you, Duncan," Kate said. 

"Oh, and you'd prefer I see him kill you instead, huh?" 

"Duncan, I--" 

"Look, let's bitch at each other later, all right?" he said. "You, get out of here, NOW!" 

"But--" Kat pleaded. 

Duncan cut her off with a quick kiss on the lips. 

"I'll be fine," he said. "Just leave and don't look back! GO!" 

He let go of her shoulders. She started to back away, then turned around and ran off. She stopped at the end of the corner and looked back at him once more. 

"GO!" he yelled, shooing her away. 

He could see her lips tremble and her eyes begin to water as she again turned and disappeared. 

Macleod reasserted his grip on the katana while he turned back in the direction of his foe. As he made the turn, however, he immediately ducked when he saw the double-sword coming straight at him! The long blade sliced right though the brick wall, taking a huge chunk out of the corner of the building. 

While the monster was distracted by the debris, Macleod rolled behind him and swung his sword at the creature's back. The creature whirled around and blocked. The two fighters exchanged several quick steel blows. Macleod made a high attack, and his and the monster's swords interlocked over both their heads, forcing them to look each other eye to mask. Macleod got the best view yet of the beast's head; he could almost see through the pale blue lens of the mask, and make out part of an eye; wide with rage, pupil dilated, and an iris color he'd never seen in human eyes. 

The beast kicked up his taloned foot and hit Macleod in the chest, sending him sailing into the wall behind him. The creature came at him head-on, both with the double sword as well as the twin blades on his right arm. Macleod ducked the first attack from the arm blades, and they punctured the wall. Macleod kicked at the trapped arm, landing the toe of his boot underneath the elbow. The created grunted in pain, while the arm became dislodged from the wall. Macleod followed his kick with a full roundhouse, banging his heel against the metal mask. The creature stumbled slightly, but regained his balance within a second and sliced the arm blades at Macleod's head. Macleod ducked, but as he got up, he met the monster's left fist. He fell backwards and rolled atop his shoulders, but quickly got back onto his feet. 

The creature again came at him, wildly swinging both his weapons. Macleod whipped his katana back and forth to block the attacks. Using the teachings of Methos from eariler in the day, Macleod was able to avoid one of the beast's "trick attacks"; the beast attacked one arm after the other, left-right-left-right, but suddenly followed a right-handed attack with a second one. Macleod anticipated the attack by watching the opponent's footwork, just as Methos had demonstrated, In defense, Macleod dodged the attack and grabbed the monster's wrist with his right hand. The monster thrust forth the long blade of the double sword in response. Macleod dodged in the opposite direction, and held the blade down with the katana, still in his left hand. 

Macleod momentarily had the monster trapped in close-quarters, binding its arms in criss-cross fashion. Macleod thrust both his arms upward, not only diverting the beast's weapons away from his own body, but also striking the hilt of the katana against the underside of the metal mask. The creature stumbled, while Macleod whirled around and sliced his blade along the belly! The neon blood spilled out once again from cut. The monster barely budged from the skin-breaking attack, but he screeched and immediately retaliated, hitting Macleod with an uppercut from the arm blades. 

Macleod fell backwards and landed on his back. He got to his knees and felt his aching chest. When he examined his right hand, he saw his own blood covering it. He looked down to see a pair of cuts running diagonally up his chest. He looked up at the opponent, who stood, chest and shoulders heaving, ready for the battle to continue. 

"Touche," said Macleod. 

As he got back up, he reached inside his cost and grabbed hold of something else. The beast watched curiously as Macleod drew a second sword; a katana, just like his own. Nearly the same length, and the handles made from the same material. However, the sculpting on the second sword formed different patterns, and the head on the end was that of a lion's, mouth wide open, as opposed to the snarling dragon that tipped Duncan Macleod's hilt. 

The monster growled at the sight of the blade. Macleod had returned to his feet with both swords in hand. He twirled them in figure-8's as he and his otherwordly foe circled each other. 

"You know whose sword this is?" Macleod asked. "This belonged to my brother, Connor Macleod. An immortal, just like me. Just like you." 

The creature jerked at the mention of Connor's name. 

"He knew about you, didn't he?" Duncan continued. "Something in my head connected you two the first time we met. I had a dream that night; you challenged him, you fought, and you lost. But it wasn't just a dream, was it? Somewhere between now and when you fought Methos, you really did meet him, and he showed you a thing or two, didn't he?" 

The beast hunched over, ready to lunge. 

"He alone was strong enough to defeat you," he said. "Well now I have his power. So just how sure are you that you alone can defeat me?" 

The creature had had enough. He leapt arm-first at Macleod, who simply bent over backwards and let the the oncoming monstrosity fly right over him. The creature landed on its shoulder and rolled onto his feet. Both fighters turned to face one another, and the Highlander started the melee. He came full force at the beast, both katanas slicing back and forth. The beast easily deflected the first series of attacks, but then Macleod threw a curveball of his own; he took a wide swipe with the right arm, then made another lightning-quick slash with the same arm. The beast blocked the second blow just in time. Following the quick shot, Macleod whirled in the opposite direction and slit the left sword along the monster's right thigh. The beast swung the double sword's long blade at Macleod's chest, but the Highlander crossed his swords and sandwhiched the alien blade between them. He forced all three blades upwards, deflecting the monster's weapon away, then he took another slash at the beast's chest, making a brand new cut that went from the right shoulder to the lower-left abdomen. 

The beast screeched once more and bent over, clenching his stomach. Macleod took aim at the back of the neck, and began to bring his sword down upon it. The monster, however, dodged out of the way just in time, but as the sword sliced the air, it also managed to sever a few metal tubes that connected the mask to the chest and shoulder armor. A white gas spewed from the cut tubes, some of it flying right in Macleod's face, blinding him. 

Macleod fought the fog in his vision for a moment, until he felt the swift fist of the beast smack right against his face! The next thing he felt was the impact of his back against the brick wall, then against the floor again. 

When his eyes finally cleared, he looked and saw the ogre coming at him full speed. He simply side-stepped, and the beast went head-first into the wall, his metal mask colliding with a somewhat comical "CLANG!". When he fell backwards, it was revealed he left a punched hole in the face of the brick surface, and there now a noticeable dent in the top of the mask. 

Seeing the beast's distress, Macleod took another opportunity to go for the neck. However, the monster ducked and grabbed the Highlander by the jacket, dragged him in a semi-circle, and tossed him into another part of the wall. Macleod bounced a little, but stayed on his feet. He saw the monster come at him with the double sword, but he too ducked the attack. He dodged behind the creature's back, whirled around, and delivered a hard boot to the back of the head. The monster again went head-first into the wall, but without anywhere near as much hard-hitting impact as the last time. 

The ogre blindly lashed out at Macleod, wiping his arm blades at his torso, missing by quite a large margain. He came at the Highlander both arms swinging, and Macleod deflected each blow with his masterfully-handled twin katanas. Macleod thrust his right weapon towards the midsection, but the creature dodged to the side and jumped at him, ramming his armored shoulder into the Highlander's chest. Both contenders fell to the ground, neither one losing grip on their equipment. 

They got up at almost the same time. When Macleod turned to face him, the beast swiped both weapons before him, attempting to shred Macleod in two. Macleod again criss-crossed his swords, blocking both attacks at once. He swiped the katanas out at his sides to deflect the alien weapons, and at the same time he jumped into the air, thrust both feet forward, and bull's eyed the ogre's head with a double-footed jump kick! 

Both fighters again met the floor; Macleod landed on his back, while the creature flew backwards and slammed into the wall one more time. 

Macleod was first to rise. As he raced towards the downed adversary to deliver a quick killing blow, he made no notice of the monster's mask, which, from impact of the double-footed kick, had flown right off the beast's head. 

He raised both katans high over his head, and he was about to bring them down upon the alien's neck, until the ogre swiveled its head and looked at him. 

The Highlander froze instantly. 

His eyes flared from his sockets, and his arms dropped to his sides. His mouth hung open in a gaze of surprise, shock, horror, and simple disbelief. 

He now knew that the mask had been shaped to fit the head perfect; a wide brow protruded from the entire circumference of the skull, going from over the eyes to the back of the head where the thick dreadlocks hung. 

Beneath the bulging brow lay the eyes, and Macleod's previous view of them certainly did not match what was visible without the helmet to hide them; urine yellow, with pinpoint pupils, encased in irises about the same shade as the brown-spotted skin, but with a tinge of red to them that made them look just as covetously bloodthirsty as their possessor. 

No nose of a recognizeable kind lay underneath the eyes. Instead, right below the eyes came the mouth, and what a mouth it was; it looked like two mouths, in fact. The first was somewhat smaller than an average human's mouth, with a set of four or five fangs lining both the top and bottom "lips". The jaw hung slightly open, and a clear drooling liquid dripped in narrow droplets as the creature huffed. The second mouth lay over and around it, and there were only four teeth in it; a set of four fanged mandibles, one set at each outside corner of the inner gullet. Their sharpened tips met at the center, forming a disgusting W shape. All four fangs quivered with rage. 

The eyelids stretched to their maximum opening, and the irises flashed a bit more red. The the four fangs spread a bit, then returned to their set position. The clicking growl tolled like a shrill whistle, no longer muffled by the helmet. 

Said the Highlander: 

"You are one...UGLY motherfucker." 

A brief pause. Then, the outer fangs spread apart into a spacious X, and the inner mouth too opened wide, baring all fourteen teeth in the most petrifying way possible. With the separation of the teeth came the most horrid, ear-piercing animal's screech the beast could muster. 

Startled by the shriek, Macleod was unable to defend himself as the monster grabbed hold of his shirt, reeled him in, and headbutted him. Macleod fell backwards, and the monster rose to its feet and started stalking him. As Macleod got up and looked towards the ogre, he met another swift punch that knocked him away again. 

Macleod got up as quickly as possible to guard against the beast's next attack, but as he was about to raise his twin katanas in defense, he froze when he saw the monster was not advancing. It stood tall, about ten feet away, upper body heaving. 

Another brief, uncomfortable pause. The beast retratced its arm blades, and tossed the double sword off to the side. He hunced over again and snarled, all four mandibles vibrating as they spread. 

The Highlander finally understood. He relaxed his arms and nodded his head, indicating his recognition of this new challange. 

"That's the way you want it, huh?" he said. "All right...I can play that game." 

He twirled around both swords, repositioning his grip on them so that the blades pointed downward. He tossed them out at his sides, removed his coat, then stood in an offensive stance and beckoned the ogre to attack, flexing his fingers in "bring it on" fashion. 

"Well come on, Fang," Macleod taunted. "You wanna get this started or what?" 

"Fang" answered as he raced in Macleod's direction and almost took his head off with a wide clothesline punch. Macleod ducked and dodged behind the ogre's back, waited for him to turn around, then jutted a hard kick right into its face. The monster hardly even moved, but Macleod wasn't done. He continued with a swift roundhouse kick, followed by another of the same type. He finished the opening attack with a jumping scissors kick to the jaw. The final blow forced the creature back a few steps, but otherwise didn't budge him. Macleod motioned to continue his assault, but as he came forward, Fang reached out his arms and latched both hands around Macleod's neck. He growled in his face, then turned around and hurled Macleod through the air like a bag of garbage! Macleod hit his back against a wall, then rolled to the ground. 

As he looked up, he saw Fang coming again. He rolled to the side as the creature aimed a kick at his midsection. He spun on the ground and struck his right leg against the back of the ogre's angles, tripping the leviathan opponent onto his back. Macleod shot his other foot into the face to keep him grounded, then got to his feet and wheeled another hard kick into the alien's face. Finally, he brought his foot down upon the side of Fang's head, sandwiching it between the sole of his boot and the pavement. A splotch of the neon blood spat from the inner mouth. 

Fang at last fended off Macleod's onslaught when he kicked up his massive legs and hit them both against the Highlander's chest. They got up simultaneously, and Fang continued the battle with a right hook aimed at Macleod's head. Macleod ducked and shot an elbow into the back of the alien's neck. The beast hardly moved, and he whirled around and swung a mean left. Macleod again ducked and kneed Fang in the midsection. The ogre bent over with an "OOF!". Macleod wrapped an arm around the neck, then ran towards the wall, ran up it a few steps, then jumped off, taking the gargantuan head with him. The result of the strange maneuver was the creature's head being driven face-first into the ground! 

Macleod overturned Fang into his back, but before he could attack again, the beast shot a quick fist into Macleod's face, knocking him away. The creature kicked onto his feet, ran straight at Macleod, and finally took him down with a running clothesline. He dragged the Highlander to his feet, placed one hand on the stomach and the other around the neck, and lifted Macleod off his feet and high into the air. Fang ran a few steps forward, then tossed Macleod back onto the ground, sending him flying thirty feet through the air, and rolling back into the opposite wall, hitting his head against the brick when he came to a stop. 

As the creature came towards him again, Macleod opened his eyes, and he saw before him the creature's mask. He weakly reached out towards it, and got a solid grip on it. 

He suddenly felt a clawed hand get a hold of his shoulder. Macleod turned onto his back and swung the mask through the air, smacking Fang right in the face! The beast fell to the ground, right next to his double sword. He grabbed the handle and, as he and Macleod were on their feet, swung it at the Highlander's head! Macleod ducked and rolled behind the ogre, but the monster whirled around and slashed the long blade at the midsection, making a brand new cut across Macleod's sternum. 

Macleod clutched his stomach, stumbled backward and fell to the ground, where he found Connor's sword lying next to him. As Fang charged, Macleod snatched the katana and raised it just in time to block the oncoming attack. He avoided the creature's assault long enough to return to his feet, and the fight returned to the blade-versus-blade stage. 

The two traded blows until they concurrently charged one another, and their swords became interlocked between them, while they were forced to stare each other eye to eye. 

Suddenly, Fang twirled the sword, spinning the long blade towards himself. Macleod again remembered Methos's training, and reacted as needed; he turned his sword horizontally and thrust it hilt-first towards his right side. The shorter blade spun towards him, and the katana blade successfully stopped it before it could cut his arm again. Macleod then placed the sword underneath the short blade of the double sword and spun to his right. He veered the alien sword, and as he made the complete turn, he slashed the katana across Fang's chest! 

The creature ignored the cut and continued the attack. He and Macleod exhanged a few more blows, until Fang dodged behind the Highlander and tried to attack his backside. Macleod blocked, and as he turned to his foe, the alien sword's long blade was repositioned; it sat on Macleod's left shoulder, still interlocked with the katana, the blade of which was held behind the back of his neck. Fang smiled as he thought he had an advantage; he tried to force his sword along the blade of Duncan's, but something was holding his arm. He looked down to see Macleod's left arm grasping the massive arm, keeping the ogre from moving his sword. 

Macleod smirked. 

He shoved the arm away from him, sending Fang spinning to his right. As he came around, Macleod put both hands on the katana and made a huge swing, taking aim for the monster's neck. Alas, as Fang made his way around, he snapped open his arm blades and lifted his right hand, blocking the katana before it could come anywhere near his neck. 

The two just stood staring at each other. 

"Damn," Macleod cursed. 

Fang reeled forth the double sword at Macleod's neck. Macleod ducked and raised the katana to block the next attack. He twirled the sword in a full circle, throwing the double sword out of the ogre's hand. 

As the beast watched his weapon fly from his grasp, Macleod once again ran the katana across the torso, then, while Fang was still distracted, he plunged the katana deep into the monster's chest. Fang screeched as he felt the steel go through his left lung and out his back! 

In immediately retaliation, the beast slashed the arm blades at the Highlander's chest. Macleod bent his body at the knees and lay flat on his back to duck the attack. As Fang tried to control his momentum, Macleod kicked onto his feet and ran a few steps to where his other the dragon-head katana lay. He slipped his foot underneath the blade and kicked upward, sending the sword levitating. He caught it by the hilt and turned back to the adversary, who he saw running straight at him, arm blades ready to slice and dice. 

As Fang charged, Macleod raised the sword and took the mightiest of swings, meeting the blades in the very middle. 

SMASH! 

The force of the impact snapped both the arm blades in two. 

Macleod took one more slash at Fang's midsection, cutting a hole in his side. He then turned to face the monster's front, and again plunged the sword downward, burying it right next to the other one! 

Fang threw back his head and howled. The yell eventually died away as he felt his strength being sapped away, and he fell to his knees, his entire body trembling. 

The Highlander casually circled around his kneeling opponent, taking a strange pleasure in its obvious agony. He stopped when he once stood in front of him, staring with little sympothy. Fang picked his head up and snarled one last time, the spotted skin gnarled and twisted with pain and tantrum. 

"I don't how they say it where you come from," Macleod said, "but around here, it goes a little something like this..." 

He grabbed a sword in each hand and ripped them both from the ogre's body. Fang yelped in pain, and the neon blood coated nearly his entire chest, as well as a good portion of the ground beneath him. Macleod brought both blades to the neck. 

"There can be only one." 

With a final stylish twirl, Macleod brought the blades together and ran them simultaneously through the alien's neck. 

The head flew off, and the body dropped onto its stomach. 

Right after the swords severed the cranium, Macleod could already feel the power surging forth. 

A light emanated from the neck, and sparks of electrical energy started fountaining forth, making the luminous blood glow even brighter. The sparks increased in size and began to encircle the entire body. Suddenly, one emerged as a bolt of lightning, flying upward and striking a dead neon sign. The lights turned on and flickered randomly, then all the tubes and bulbs exploded from the intense energy. 

Macleod felt a jolt in his system, and his body started convulsing while he raised both swords over his head. More bolts of lightning shot from the headless body, taking chunks out of the surrounding walls, smashing windows, breaking down doors, and even destroying pipes that lined the alley where the fight started. 

Finally, one shot into the sky, flew in an impressive pattern, then turned towards the ground, propelled downward, and struck the Highlander directly in the chest. Macleod's eyes popped open and he screamed; this was a pain he had never felt from any other Quickining, a pain that was like the headaches he'd felt in the monster's presence before, but a hundred times worse, and he felt it through his entire anatomy. He dropped the swords and let his body go wild; he shook like he was trapped in a planet-ravaging earthquake, while his screams echoed into the starry night sky. And as he screamed, he could almost hear the agonized screams of the monster; he thought he was just hearing things, but he then realized it was HE that made those sounds. It was from his own lungs that those aliens screeches burst forth from. 

Meanwhile, the energy obliterated the scenery. The neon sign had been broken off from its base, and it came crashing to the ground in a sparking heap, but still the Quickening's power struck it, tearing it further apart. Up above, six stories of windows smashed to coin-sized pieces, shattering from the top floor going down. 

It felt like it lasted an eternity. But in reality, it lasted not even a single minute. The lightning stopped striking, and the light from the corpse died away. It was over. 

Macleod's body still shook for a few moments more, then he loosened his muscles, dropped his arms to his sides, and opened his eyes, breathing quick, vigorous huffs and puffs. Never before had he felt anything so emphatic. It might as well have been The Prize itself. 

He dropped his to hands and knees, and began crawling. He blindly found both his swords and squeezed the handles tightly. 

He perked his head up as he heard footsteps from beyond the shadows. He tried to pick up one of the katanas, but all strength to do so was unavailable. 

He again relaxed when he listened to the footsteps more closely; steady footsteps, but they were not in even sets. He heard one foot, a pause, then two more swounds - a second footstep, and the sound of a walking cane hitting the ground. 

From out of the darkness came a single man, elderly and bearded, dressed in a gray trenchcoat, and sure enough holding a cane in one hand. 

"Mac?" Joe Dawson called. "Are you all right?" 

Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod smiled as he heard the friendly voice. 

"Bourban," he deliriously replied, "on the rocks, please." 

He fell face-first onto the ground, unconscious. 


	6. Epilogue

hvp-ep.html **HVP: Highlander vs. Predator**   
**Epilogue**   


Macleod gulped down his drink and rest his head against the table. He had such a headache, and he knew alcohol wouldn't help it go away, but after the day he'd had, a simple migraine was the least of his worries. 

"I wish I could have been there," Methos said. "To see that animal taken down so brutally would have been a wonderful thing to witness. Tell me, Highlander, how do you feel?" 

"Shut up, Methos." 

"I see," he replied. "Well, I can understand your displeasure. Fighting it alone was a tremendous undertaking; I can't imagine what absorbing its power was like. Simply the concept baffles me; who ever would have thought that the curse of immortality would reach so far beyond our stars? I mean, just the proof that we're not alone out here is astounding, but that a being from that other world has drawn into the game like that..." He took a gulp of his own drink and sighed. "...simply astounding." 

Macleod lifted his head and put a hand over it, running his fingers through his hair. A bruise of his forehead had just healed, and the cuts on the rest of his body were coming along quite nicely, much quicker than usual in fact. He figured he should be able to remove the bandages by just before nightfall. 

All the while, the Watcher Joe Dawson sat behind the bar, tapping his right index finger impatiently on the side of an open laptop. He stroked his beard and growled under his breath. 

"Something troubling you, Joe?" asked Methos. 

"I have no damn idea how to type up this report," Dawson answered. "There's no way I could tell the truth and make it believeable. The Watchers would have me comitted." 

"You can still tell the truth," Methos said. "An unknown immortal took a few heads, then died by Macleod's blade. It's true enough, isn't it?" 

"True enough for us, yes; true enough for the Watchers, no," Dawson argued. "They're going to want details, and they know I have them. I saw the whole thing happen, but I still don't even know what the right details are! No birthdate, no life history...every immortal has to have one included, and for this guy, we don't even know what to call him." 

"Yautja," said Macleod. 

Both Methos and Dawson turned to Macleod in confusion. 

"Excuse me?" 

"The name of his species," Macleod explained. "They're called the Yautja." 

"How the hell do you know that?" asked Dawson. 

Macleod pointed to his head. "It's all up here," he explained. "You don't just take in the strength; you take the skill, the experience, sometimes even the memories. And Fang gave me everything he had." 

"Well, by all means, do tell," said Methos. 

The Highlander chuckled a little. "It's strange," he said. "His origin really isn't all that disimilar from my own. His race are just a huge pack of hunters. They go wherever the best game is, they do a little sport-killing, then pack up and go when they're done having fun. And they've been here before...countless times over the last couple centuries. Our friend was here on a routine training mission when he met you, Methos, and you know the story from there. You really are lucky you survived. He had become practically invulnerable. Not even the winter weather could stop him." 

"What's that got to do with anything?" asked Methos. 

"They prefer the jungles," Macleod answered. "It's vital to their survival that they stay in hot, humid environments." 

"But..." Methos questioned, "...if they can't survive in cold climates, then how was he able to attack my squadron all those years ago?" 

"You weren't the reason he became an immortal," Macleod said. "His ship crash-landed in the Alps. He survived the crash, but he died of hypothermia not long afterward. And from that point on, he could have been in Antarctica and it wouldn't have slowed him down. After all...no immortal ever died of a chill." 

Methos nodded in agreement. 

"So he woke up, he saw his wounds had healed and was overjoyed. He headed back to his ship, did all the necessary repairs he could, and took off for home. When he returned to his planet, he told his people what had happened, and he proclaimed himself a god among his peers." he continued. "At first, they thought he was insane. But when he proved himself right, the rest of his clansmen feared what he was capable of and turned against him. They banished him from their planet, trapped a ship that was supposed to just circle their galaxy without a destination. He spent about forty years in flight, until he managed to take control of the ship, and he steered it right back to Earth. 

"He walked the earth for years looking for big game, but didn't find any until he sensed the first of his victims, an immortal in New Jersey. He somehow caught wind that a lot of us were in New York, so he decided to take a little trip up north." 

"And the rest, as they say, is history," said Methos. 

A dead silence formed a conversational gap in the room. Macleod casually took another gulp of his drink, while Methos sat silently contemplating the story, and Dawson sat eyes wide open. 

"Well..." he said. "Won't that be an interesting report." 

"Just give them the essentials," said Methos. "Date of the first death, I can give you that one; date of defeat was just yesterday. You already have the names of all the immortals he killed. And you've already got the best picture of him you could get." 

"If you can even call it that," Dawson said. 

He turned the laptop towards Methos to display the page. There was a large blank area where the written report was to be placed, and several information text boxes filled only with a series of question marks. The picture on the left side of the moniter was somewhat blurry, but the three could easily tell what it was; a long figure standing in the middle of an alley, only his body wasn't at all visible. Nothing but the outline, the specter, or ghost, or whatever other name that could be used to describe it. 

"This was the last picture that Rick was able to take before that...THING blew his brains out," Dawson said. "It's the best we've got without having to use an artist's rendition." 

He turned the computer back towards him and continued tapping on the side. 

"Now if only we had a name for him..." 

Macleod got up and walked around the counter, and stood behind Dawson while he tapped on his keyboard. 

"I've got the perfect name," he said. 

He leaned over Dawson's shoulder and tapped a short series of letters into the name area: 

P-R-E-D-A-T-O-R 

He stood up and looked at the page from a distance. Dawson raised an eyebrow and looked up at Macleod, nonverbally requesting an explanation. 

"A rough translation of the species name," Macleod replied. "I think it suits him just fine." 

He then left the bar and exited out the front entrance. 

Dawson shrugged and typed in a few more bits of important information, then hit one final button to complete the report. The screen turned blank, and the words appeared: 

PROFILE ENTERED 

**** 

"You can't really blame me for going out there, can you?" Kate asked, stepping out of the shower. 

"No I suppose I can't," Macleod replied as he unbuttoned his shirt. "I would have done the exact same thing had I been in your shoes. But it was still stupid of you to even think of fighting him." 

Kate drew a towel from the nearby rack and vigorously massaged her soaking body with it. "I don't consider it stupid to step into a dangerous situation of any sort if it means protecting someone you care about," she said. "You of all people have decent experience with things like that." 

Macleod groaned and rolled his eyes. She did indeed have a point. 

Kate stepped out of the bathroom and leaned against the doorway, dressed only in a light silk bathrobe, one that barely concealed her beautiful body. Macleod turned to see her, and found himself mesmerized by the sight; she was still a little wet, and the water was absorbed into the robe and made it cling to her skin, detailing her..."finer assets". 

"Besides," she said, as she stood seductively against the wall, "everyone should get their chance to play the hero." 

She strode towards him, making her way behind his back. She wrapped her arms around him behind him, and they stared at one another through the reflections in the mirror before them. 

"It's not always about the guy getting the girl, y'know," she added. 

Macleod almost stuttered his response. "No...I guess...there's no reason it...couldn't be the..." 

As he spoke, she slipped the shirt of his back, and ran her hands down his chest and around his..."lower extremities". He gulped. 

"...other way around." 

Her hands went up to his torso, and she hugged his stomach tightly. He winced and bent over a little. Kate loosened her grip upon seeing his discomfort. 

"Oh please, I don't hurt that much, do I?" she demanded, sounding a bit insulted. 

"Trust me, it's not you," Macleod assured her. "I'm still doing some healing around there. You know how it is; sometimes your wounds mend from the outside going in." 

"Well then..." she said, as her hands grabbed hold of her bathrobe collar. 

In the reflection, Macleod watched as she pulled the bathrobe down and off her body. He heard it plop onto the floor, and he now only felt human skin making contact with his back. Kate wrapped her arms around him again and leaned her head in towards his left ear. 

"...I'll just have to be extra gentle with you tonight." 

Her voice was sultrier than a summer day in the Amazon. Macleod gulped again. 

She walked away from, and Macleod watched her unclothed backside swagger towards the bed and slip underneath the covers. She sank into the mattress until the bed sheet covered her up to her collarbone. She rests her arms against the headboard and stared back at Macleod, her eyes half-closed, her lips full and pouting. 

"Room for one more." 

Macleod turned around and smiled. What a night this would be. 

The romance was cut short, however, when Kate momentarily glanced towards the mirror. She suddenly froze, and her "come hither" stare transformed into a gaze of alarm. Macleod noticed her sudden distress, and his smile dissolved as well. 

"What?" he said. "What is it?" 

"Duncan..." she nervously said, pointing to the mirror, "...we have company." 

Macleod slowly turned toward the reflection in the mirror, and he at last saw what was troubling the woman. At the opposite end of the room, right next to an open window, the shadow of a hulking mass stood; a ghost of a figure that distorted the scenery in front of which it stood. The mass stood at roughly eight feet, and its head suspended from its rear a series of thick rope-like hairs. Dreadlocks, to be exact. 

He whirled around, and he suddenly felt a clawed hand wrap around his neck and shove him against the wall. When he realized what had happened, he saw the specter standing right before him. 

In a frenzy, Kate searched for a defense mechanism of some sort, and she caught sight of Duncan's sword laying on the night stand next to the bed. She reached out for it, but again froze when she felt a pair of metal blades place their points against her neck. She tilted her eyes upward, and she saw a SECOND ghost standing next to the bed. 

"Kate!" Macleod gasped. 

"He didn't come alone this time..." she wimpered. 

They both heard the sounds of varied grunting and growling, similar to those which Fang uttered in battle. In the middle of the room, two more of the gargantuan ghosts materialized, carrying with them the same varieties of arm blades and exotic swords that Fang used. 

The one with its hand around Macleod's neck shouted a foreign command to the other three. The one nearest to Kate retracted the arm blades and tapped the buttons on his left arm guard, as did the other two. The leader shoved Macleod against the wall again, and did just what he ordered the others to do. One by one, the specters deactivated their invisibility devices, and the full figures of four "Predators" came into view. All but the leader wore the metal helmets. One had skin coloration almost like Fang's, another two had the same spotted patterns, but with a more yellow tone to them, and the leader had orange and yellow markings that more resembled tiger stripes. His armor was much more decorative than the others, indicating he must have indeed been in control of this group. 

The growling, tusked face stared into Macleod's shocked eyes. It sputtered a few growls and grunts that may have been a language, but Macleod couldn't tell for sure. He glanced at the Predator's neck, and noticed a strange tattoo just below one of the dreadlocks on the side of his head. Perhaps a symbol of his clan? 

One of the others shouted something that sounded argumentative, and the leader turned and yelled back at him angrily. The underling lowered his head in shame and took a step back. 

Turning back to Macleod, the leader placed his left hand over Macleod's chest to hold him against the wall, then he raised his right hand, activated one of the arm blades, and brought it Macleod's cheek. The Highlander didn't budge; he gulped once more, this time swallowing his fear. 

"You banish one of your own, just because he's different," he scolded, "then you come back to avenge him, is that right?" 

The leader click-growled at the allegation. 

"Well, go right ahead," Macleod challenged. "Go on, take your revenge, you son-of-a--" 

He was interrupted when the leader leaned in and roared in his face. Macleod instantly silenced himself. The leader stood up straight, and his mandibles rattled. Macleod looked into the Predator's eyes, and right then and there, he had the feeling that perhaps he WASN'T here to exact any sort of retribution. 

The leader took a deep breath, and both mouths spread apart as he spoke two slow, gutteral words: 

"Hold...still." 

Despite a sudden newfound incredulity, Macleod figured it best to do as he was asked. 

The arm blade reached over to the side of Macleod's neck, and the leader forced it inward, ever so lightly, just enough to break the skin without forcing out any blood. Macleod cringed and tried not to squirm, while the leader made a short, carefully inscribed series of cuts on the skin. 

When he was done, he retracted the blade and released Macleod, who gladly shook off the alien's grip. He felt his sore neck and examined his hand, only to find a miniscule drop or two of blood on his palm. 

The leader turned to another of his underlings and barked a command. The subordinate nodded and reached behind his back to grab something. He produced the double-sword, the same one used against Macleod in the awesome struggle the night before. He walked up to the leader and handed it to him. The leader held both hands on the hilt, turned to Macleod, and slowly kneeled before him, the dreadlocked head drooped toward the floor, and the sword presented to the immortal. 

In unison, the other three kneeled before Duncan Macleod. 

The Highlander, confounded by the situation, slowly reached out and grabbed the alien weapon, and took it from the leader's hands. As soon as he did, the leader looked up at him with what Macleod could only guess was the Predators' version of a smile. 

"Thanks..." he slowly stated. "...I guess..." 

All four aliens rose to their feet. The leader made one last command, and the other three responded by again tapping the buttons on their arm guards. This time, one by one, their invisibility devices were reactivated, and they walked back towards the open window while their bodies faded out of detectable space. 

The leader turned and headed toward the window as well. He stopped when he was about to pass by Kate, who still sat in the bed, sheet clutched over her torso, shivering like a Chihuahua puppy. The Predator placed his right fist over his chest, closed his eyes, and politely bowed to her. She stopped shaking. 

On that final note, the leader turned back to Macleod and grunted a farewell, then turned to the window and disappeared along with his comrades. 

Silence. 

"What..." Kate skittishly asked, "...was that all about?" 

Macleod felt the pain in his neck surge again, and he turned to his reflection to see what exactly the Predator had scratched onto his skin. When he examined the area, he felt a little awkward, but at the same time quite relieved when he recognized a symbol kindred to the one tattooed onto the leader's neck, a symbol that Duncan Macleod now bore. 

With a slight smile on his face, Macleod walked over to the window and stared out into the gorgeous night sky; a brilliant purple aura caressed the New York City skyline as the final hours of twilight paraded their blush. 

Kate got out of bed, the sheet wrapped around her, and stood behind Macleod with a hand over his shoulder. 

"I'm not really sure..." he at last answered, "...but I think that was just their way of...saying congratulations." 

A single streak of virgin white flame dashed across the night sky, dissolving into the glow of the horizon. 

A shooting star. How lovely. 

**THE END**


End file.
